HE  DAY'S 
JOURNEY 


NETTA  S 


TT 


THE  DAY'S  JOURNEY 


CECILY,"  HE  SAID  SUDDENLY,  "WHAT  ARE  You 
GOING  TO  Do  ?" 


[PAGE  260] 


THE 

DAYS    JOURNEY 

BY 

NETTA    SYRETT 

AUTHOR  OF   "  ROSANNE,"    "THE  TREE  OF  LIFE,"    ETC. 


"Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend." 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.   McCLURG   &   CO. 

1906 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.   MCCLURG  &  Co. 
1906 

Published  September  15,  1906 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


THE  DAY'S  JOURNEY 


THE  DAY'S  JOURNEY 


CHAPTER   I 

ROSE  SUMMERS  paused  a  moment  be- 
fore she  lifted  the  latch  of  a  little  gate 
set  between  two  walls  of  yew.  It  was  June. 
The  sky  had  the  blue  of  larkspur,  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  The  gate  in 
the  yew  hedge  opened  upon  a  small  flagged 
court  leading  to  a  porch  wreathed  with  roses. 
Above  the  porch  clematis  and  ivy  continued 
the  wall  of  living  green  almost  to  the  gables 
of  what  had  once  been  an  Elizabethan  farm- 
house, and  was  now  the  picturesque  home  of 
Robert  Kingslake  and  of  Cecily  his  wife. 

To  the  left,  above  a  walled  garden,  great 
chestnut  trees  reared  their  heads,  and  flung 
shadows  across  the  lane  in  which  Mrs.  Sum- 
mers was  standing.  The  stillness,  broken 
only  by  the  sleepy  clucking  of  fowls,  was  of 
that  peculiar  peacefulness  which  broods  over 
an  English  country-side.  On  the  white  dust 


2  The  Day's  Journey 

in  the  road  the  shadows  lay  asleep.  The 
trees  themselves  drowsed  against  the  blue 
sky ;  the  very  roses  above  the  house-porch 
laid  their  pink  faces  together,  and,  cradled 
in  leaves,  dreamt  in  the  sunshine. 

Only  a  moment  passed  before  Mrs.  Sum- 
mers lifted  the  latch,  yet  in  that  moment  she 
saw  in  imagination  one  hill  station  after 
another ;  she  hurried  through  adventures  and 
experiences  which  had  filled  five  years,  and 
came  back  to  the  realization  that,  in  the 
meantime,  her  cousin  Cecily  had  just  lived 
here  at  the  Priory,  listening  to  the  clucking 
of  the  fowls,  looking  at  the  chestnut  trees 
against  the  sky,  perhaps  tending  the  roses 
round  the  porch.  She  walked  up  the  flagged 
path  and  rang  the  bell.  The  door  was 
opened  in  a  few  moments  by  a  neat  maid, 
who  said  that  Mrs.  Kingslake  was  out.  "  But 
she  won't  be  long,  ma'am,  if  you  '11  come 
in,"  she  added. 

The  porch  led  almost  directly  into  one  of 
those  square,  panelled  halls  which  make  the 
most  charming  of  sitting-rooms.  At  the 
farther  end  a  long,  low  casement  window 
framed  a  vista  of  the  garden  —  green,  luxuriant, 
brilliant  with  flowers.  On  the  window-ledge 
there  was  a  china  bowl  of  sweet  peas. 


The  Day's  Journey  3 

Mrs.  Summers  looked  about  her  with  in- 
terest. There  was  not  much  furniture,  but 
each  piece,  though  simple,  was  beautiful  in 
form  at  least,  and  in  some  cases  obviously 
rather  costly.  It  was  furniture  chosen  with 
discretion.  "  Better  off  than  they  used  to 
be,"  was  her  mental  comment. 

She    glanced   at   the    fresh    chintz   curtains, 

O  ' 

at  the  two  or  three  little  pieces  of  silver,  ex- 
quisitely cared  for,  on  mantelpiece  and  tables ; 
at  the  flowers  everywhere.  "  She  's  as  dainty 
as  ever,"  was  her  next  reflection. 

A  photograph  on  the  top  of  a  writing-table 
caught  her  wandering  attention.  She  took  it 
up,  and  examined  it  with  interest. 

It  was  that  of  a  man  of  a  possible  five- 
and-thirty,  clean-shaven,  handsome,  with  some- 
thing eager,  enthusiastic,  almost  childlike  about 
the  eyes,  and  the  mouth  of  a  sensualist. 

Mrs.  Summers  replaced  the  photograph  ;  it 
was  of  Cecily's  husband,  but  she  was  more 
interested  in  Cecily,  and  of  her  she  could  find 
no  picture. 

She  walked  presently  to  the  door  which 
led  into  the  garden.  Looking  out  upon  its 
cool  greenness  and  beauty,  her  thoughts  were 
full  of  its  owner.  A  very  close  friendship, 
rather  than  the  tie  of  blood,  bound  her  to  the 


4  The  Day's  Journey 

woman  for  whose  coming  she  waited.  Much 
of  her  girlhood  had  been  spent  with  Cecily, 
and  up  to  the  time  of  her  own  marriage,  six 
years  ago,  she  had  stayed  weeks  at  a  time  at 
the  Meri vales'  house  in  Chelsea.  It  had  been 
an  interesting  house  to  visit.  Cecily's  father, 
a  widower  and  a  well-known  doctor,  was  the 
type  of  man  who  attracted  the  better  minds, 
the  more  striking  personalities,  and  Cecily  was 
undoubtedly  the  woman  to  keep  them. 

Apparently  gazing  into  the  quiet  Surrey 
garden,  in  reality  Mrs.  Summers  was  looking 
into  the  drawing-room  at  Carmarthen  Terrace, 
seeing  it  as  it  had  appeared  on  many  an  even- 
ing in  the  past.  The  room  was  full  of  firelight 
and  candlelight,  a  quiet,  restful  room,  a  little  old- 
fashioned  with  its  traces  of  mid-Victorianism, 
brought  by  Cecily's  clever  touch  into  har- 
mony with  a  more  modern  standard  of  taste. 
Mrs.  Summers  remembered  the  pattern  of 
the  long  chintz  curtains,  remembered  the  sub- 
dued tone  of  the  walls,  the  china  in  the  big 
cabinet,  the  water-colors  which  were  the  pride 
of  her  uncle's  heart.  She  saw  him  talking 
earnestly  at  one  end  of  the  room,  his  fine  gray 
head  conspicuous  among  the  group  of  men 
who  surrounded  him  —  men  well  known  in 
the  world  of  science,  of  letters,  and  of  art. 


The  Day's  Journey  5 

Even  more  distinctly  she  saw  Cecily,  the  young 
hostess  and  mistress  of  the  house,  in  the  midst 
of  the  younger  men  and  women  of  their  circle. 
She  heard  the  laughter.  There  was  always 
laughter  near  Cecily,  whose  airy  insouciance 
was  amusing  enough  successfully  to  disguise 
real  ability. 

"  I  'm  quite  clever  enough  to  pass  for  a 
fluffy  fool  —  when  necessary."  This,  a  long- 
ago  remark  of  her  cousin's,  suddenly  recurred 
to  Mrs.  Summers,  a  propos  of  nothing,  and  she 
wondered  whether  Cecily  ever  wrote  anything 
now.  Then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Cecily 
as  a  hostess.  She  had  been  looked  upon  by 
some  of  her  friends  as  a  brilliant  woman,  a 
woman  whose  social  gifts,  whose  power  of 
pleasing  —  as  well  as  leading  —  should  carry 
her  far  in  the  yet  wider  world  which  would 
open  for  her  when  she  made  the  excellent 
marriage  that  every  one  predicted. 

And,  after  all,  Cecily  had  married  Robert 
Kingslake,  a  writer  with  nothing  but  his  pen 
between  him  and  starvation. 

Rose  remembered  the  first  day  he  came  to 
the  house,  a  rather  sombre,  rather  picturesque 
figure,  with  his  dark  eyes  and  graceful,  lithe 
body.  Things  moved  very  quickly  after  that 
first  evening,  so  quickly  that  in  retrospect 


6  The  Day's  Journey 

there  seemed  to  Mrs.  Summers  to  have  been 
scarcely  a  moment  of  ordinary  acquaintance- 
ship. There  was  a  slight  interval  devoted  to 
impetuous,  ardent  love-making,  and  then  the 
wedding,  for  which  she,  herself  a  year-old 
bride,  had  not  been  able  to  stay. 

Her  husband's  regiment  had  been  ordered 
to  India  a  week  before  Cecily  Merivale  became 
Cecily  Kingslake,  and  she  had  sailed  with  him. 
A  breath  of  warm  air  swept  towards  the  open 
door,  and  fanned  the  short  curtains  at  the 
window ;  it  brought  with  it  the  scent  of  carna- 
tions, and  to  Mrs.  Summers  a  sudden  vision 
of  Cecily  as  she  had  last  seen  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  in 
her  room  at  Carmarthen  Terrace.  The  room 
was  flooded  with  sunshine.  The  basin  on  the 
washstand  was,  Mrs.  Summers  remembered, 
full  of  carnations,  and  as  she  entered  the  room 
she  had  exclaimed  at  their  beauty. 

"  They  've  just  come.  I  'm  going  to  ar- 
range them,"  Cecily  had  said.  She  held  a 
letter  which  had  also  evidently  just  come,  and 
as  she  raised  her  head  the  look  on  her  face 
had  startled  her  cousin.  She  remembered 
fearing  for  her.  Could  any  human  being  with 
impunity  be  as  ecstatically  happy  as  that  ?  It 
was  like  tempting  Providence. 


The  Day's  Journey  7 

Something  of  this,  half  in  jest,  half  seriously, 
she  had  tried  to  say,  and  Cecily  had  laughed, 
the  low,  trembling  laugh  of  a  delight  too  deep 
to  find  other  expression.  She  had  given  her- 
self over  to  her  love  as  the  woman  a  little 
difficult,  more  than  a  little  fastidious,  always 
gives  herself — with  a  surrender  complete  and 
unquestioning. 

The  sunny  bedroom,  the  dainty  new  frocks 
over  the  backs  of  the  chairs,  the  litter  of  boxes 
and  paper  about  the  room,  the  brilliant  flowers, 
and  Cecily  in  her  white  petticoat,  her  white 
shoulders  bare  ;  —  beautiful,  proud,  and  smil- 
ing,—  Mrs.  Summers  saw  her  as  though  five 
days  rather  than  five  years  had  passed  since 
they  had  met. 

She  moved,  and  glanced  back  over  her 
shoulder.  The  memory  was  so  vivid  that 
it  stirred  her  to  impatience.  Why  did  n't 
Cecily  come?  A  door  closed  sharply. 

"Where?  Where  is  she?"  It  was  the 
same  clear,  eager  voice,  and  Mrs.  Summers 
smiled,  suddenly  reassured. 

The  next  moment  Cecily's  arms  were  round 
her,  and  there  was  a  rush  of  incoherent  ques- 
tions. Then  Rose  gently  pushed  her  back, 
and  they  looked  at  one  another. 

Involuntarily    an    exclamation    rose    to    the 


8  The  Day's  Journey 

elder  woman's  lips,  mercifully  checked,  as  she 
recognized,  by  Cecily's  eager  words. 

"  You  are  just  the  same ! "  she  cried. 
"  You  've  scarcely  changed  at  all."  And  then 
came  the  inevitable  pause.  Rose  listened  to 
a  thrush  singing,  and  to  the  distant  sound  of 
a  mowing-machine.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
listening  quite  a  long  time  before  Cecily  broke 
in  so  sharply  that  her  voice  was  almost  like 
a  cry. 

"  Ah  no  !  don't  look  at  me  !  I  'm  old  and 
ugly.  I  've  changed,  have  n't  I,  Rose  ?  "  The 
question  ended  in  a  nervous  laugh. 


CHAPTER   II 

"T'M  dying  to  go  into  the  garden,"  said 
J_  Mrs.  Summers.  She  slipped  her  arm 
within  Cecily's,  and  while  she  talked  volubly, 
felt  its  trembling  gradually  lessen.  "  Tongue 
cannot  tell  what  I  've  endured  since  I  landed 
on  Tuesday,"  she  exclaimed.  "  The  children's 
ayah  has  been  ill,  relations  have  incessantly 
banged  at  the  front  door,  Mother  has  had  one 
of  her  attacks  —  excitement,  you  know,  —  and 
I  've  been  tearing  my  hair.  I  dare  n't  write 
to  tell  you  when  to  expect  me  because  I  did  n't 
know  from  hour  to  hour  when  I  could  get 
away.  At  last  to-day  there  was  a  lull ;  so, 
forbidding  anything  to  happen  in  my  absence, 
I  just  rushed  of?  to  you." 

"  And  the  babies  ?  "  asked  Cecily. 

"  Splendid.  They  got  horribly  spoilt  on 
board,  and  now  Mother 's  putting  the  finish- 
ing touches." 

"And  Jack?" 


io  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Very  fit  when  I  left  him,  a  month  ago. 
But  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  babies,  nor  even 
husbands.  I  want  to  know  about  you." 

Cecily  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  There  's 
nothing  to  tell,"  she  said.  "  You  saw  me  a 
month  before  I  came  into  this  house ;  I  've 
been  here  ever  since.  This  is  rather  a  nice 
seat." 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench  under  a  beech 
tree,  and  for  all  her  volubility  Rose  felt  her- 
self nonplussed.  She  glanced  at  Cecily, 
her  momentary  hesitation  as  to  what  to  say 
next  indicated  by  a  little  furrow  between  the 
eyes. 

Rose  Summers  was  scarcely  a  pretty,  but 
certainly  a  striking  woman,  who,  in  spite  of 
trying  circumstances  in  the  shape  of  an  Eastern 
climate,  looked  younger  than  her  thirty-one 
years.  Her  figure,  of  the  athletic  type,  was 
good ;  she  was  exceedingly  well  dressed,  and 
she  wore  her  clothes  with  distinction.  Her 
slightly  freckled  face  had  a  healthy  tint,  and 
her  eyes  —  gray,  clear,  and  steady  —  were  beau- 
tiful as  well  as  kindly.  Their  expression 
was  contradicted,  to  some  extent,  by  the  sar- 
casm indicated  in  a  rather  large  and  certainly 
humorous  mouth.  The  eyes  she  turned 
upon  her  friend  now  were  troubled,  almost 


The  Day's  Journey  n 

incredulous.  Her  mental  picture  of  the 
Cecily  of  five  years  back  had  been  so  vivid 
that,  even  with  the  witness  before  her,  she 
could  not  realize  the  change  those  years  had 
brought. 

Cecily  was  still  graceful ;  nothing  could  rob 
her  of  the  beautiful  movements  which  charac- 
terized every  change  of  attitude  ;  and  as  she 
threw  herself  back  against  the  cushions  in  the 
corner  of  the  bench,  for  the  first  time  Mrs. 
Summers  recognized  the  Cecily  of  the  past. 

But  her  beauty  was  wellnigh  gone.  It  was 
a  beauty  that  had  always  largely  depended  on 
happiness,  and  now,  with  her  blue  eyes  faded, 
the  delicate  color  gone  from  her  cheeks,  her 
hair  still  soft  but  lustreless,  she  was  almost  a 
plain  woman.  Rose  glanced  furtively  from 
her  face  to  her  dress.  It  was  of  simple  dark 
blue  linen,  quite  neat,  quite  serviceable.  She 
thought  of  the  dainty  muslins,  the  ribbons, 
the  flowers  of  earlier  summers  —  and  the  ludi- 
crousness  of  even  imagining  Cecily  in  a  gown 
that  could  be  characterized  as  serviceable ! 

"  When  you  begin  to  neglect  your  frocks, 
Cis,  I  shall  know  the  end  is  near."  In  the 
old  days  Mrs.  Summers  had  often  told  her 
this.  She  recalled  it  now,  and  made  haste  to 
break  the  silence. 


12  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Where  is  Robert  ? "  she  asked.  "  Do  I 
call  him  Robert?  I  forget." 

"Of  course  you  do.  He's  in  town  — 
reading  at  the  British  Museum." 

Rose  raised  her  eyebrows  with  a  laugh. 
"  Since  when  has  our  Robert  become  so 
studious  ? " 

"  He  's  writing  a  historical  novel,  and  has 
to  study  up  the  period.  Robert  is  getting 
quite  famous,  you  know,  Rose,"  she  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Yes  —  but  you,  Cis  ?  Why  are  you  not 
famous  ? " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  'm  married  —  instead,"  she 
replied,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  Robert,"  demanded 
Mrs.  Summers.  "  If  you  only  knew  how 
horribly  out  of  things  I  feel  !  I  know  noth- 
ing of  what 's  been  going  on  in  the  book 
world." 

"I  should  think  not  —  with  two  babies  to 
look  after." 

"  And  the  constant  moving  from  one 
station  to  another.  One  loses  touch  so 
quickly,  and  you  know,  Cis,"  with  a  touch 
of  reproach,  "  you  have  n't  written.  Why 
did  n't  you  write  ?  For  the  last  year  or  two 
I  've  scarcely  heard  anything  of  you." 


The  Day's  Journey  13 

For  a  moment  her  cousin  was  silent,  and 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  trembled. 

"  I   know.     But  after  baby  died,   I   had  n't 

the  heart.     And  then "     She    broke  off 

abruptly. 

Mrs.  Summers'  voice  was  very  gentle. 

"Yes,  dear,  of  course —  I  understand,"  she 
said.  "  But  tell  me  everything  now.  Robert 's 
getting  famous  ?  That  means  that  you  're  get- 
ting rich,  you  lucky  little  wretch  !  " 

"Yes,"  returned  Cecily.  "Yes,  I  suppose 
we  shall  be  rich,"  she  added,  slowly. 

"  Bless  the  child !  Are  n't  you  glad  ?  Is  n't 
he  glad  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he's  very  glad.  We  can  get  away 
now."  She  spoke  in  a  quiet,  unemotional 
tone,  and  Rose  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

"  Get  away  ?  But  does  n't  he  love  this 
place  ?  " 

"No,  he's  sick  of  it,"  she  said,  still  in  the 
same  indifferent  voice.  "  We  're  going  to  sell 
it,  and  move  to  London  in  the  autumn." 

"  But  Robert  was  so  wild  to  take  it ! " 

"That  was  five  years  ago." 

"It's  perfectly  lovely,  of  course,"  returned 
her  friend,  glancing  round  her.  "  But  you 
never  wanted  to  come,  I  remember.  You 
wanted  so  much  to  live  in  town.  The 


i4  The  Day's  Journey 

discussion  of  town  versus  country  was  at  its 
height  when  I  left.  So  country  won  ?  " 

"Yes,  country  won,"  Cecily  repeated. 

"  Well,  it 's  beautiful,"  Rose  repeated.  "  I 
never  saw  such  flowers.  What  a  gardener  you 
must  have ! " 

Cecily  laughed.  "  I  am  the  gardener.  I 
do  it  nearly  all  myself." 

Rose's  astonishment  kept  her  silent.  Cecily, 
who  knew  nothing  of  country  things!  Cecily, 
who,  in  spite  of  her  love  for  nature,  belonged 
first  to  the  town  —  to  its  life,  its  thoughts,  its 
opportunities !  To  this  meeting  with  the 
friend  of  her  girlhood  she  had  been  looking 
forward  for  months,  and  she  had  met  a 
stranger.  She  had  foolishly  expected  to  take  up 
the  thread  of  intimacy  where  she  had  dropped 
it,  and  in  the  interval  a  whole  new  pattern  had 
been  woven,  —  a  pattern  in  faded  colors, 
whose  design  she  did  not  understand. 

Cecily  was  obviously  unhappy  ;  obviously, 
also,  she  was  keeping  her  at  arm's  length,  and 
with  such  success  that  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
ask  direct  questions.  With  gratitude  she  hailed 
the  appearance  of  a  maid  who  came  with  tea, 
as  a  relief  to  her  embarrassment  —  that  terrible 
embarrassment  one  feels  in  the  presence  of  a 
close  friend  to  whose  mind  one  has  lost  the  key. 


The  Day's  Journey  15 

While  the  cloth  was  being  spread,  and  the 
maid  was  moving  to  and  fro  from  the  house, 
they  exchanged  information  on  family  matters. 

"  Diana  is  almost  grown  up,"  said  Cecily, 
speaking  of  her  sister,  whom  Mrs.  Summers 
remembered  as  a  child  of  twelve.  "  You  know 
she's  been  living  with  Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt- 
Mary  since  father  died?"  The  softening  of 
her  voice,  the  hesitation  with  which  she  spoke 
his  name,  reminded  Rose  of  one  great  grief,  at 
least,  through  which  in  her  absence  her  friend 
had  passed.  "You  will  like  Diana,"  Cecily 
added  after  a  moment.  "  Of  course  you  're 
going  to  stay  to-night,  Rose?  " 

Mrs.  Summers  admitted  that  she  was  open 
to  an  invitation.  "  When  is  Robert  coming 
back  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  This  afternoon,  I  think.  He  was  staying 
last  night  at  his  godmother's  —  Lady  Wilmot, 
you  know." 

The  mention  of  her  husband's  name  did  not, 
as  Rose  hoped,  lead  to  confidences.  Cecily 
began  at  once  to  inquire  the  earliest  date  at 
which  her  friend  could  leave  the  children  long 
enough  for  a  "  proper  visit,"  and  Mrs.  Sum- 
mers was  soon  driven  to  make  conversation. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  little  world  it  is  ! "  she 
remarked,  stirring  her  tea ;  "  I  have  n't  yet 


16  The  Day's  Journey 

been  home  a  week,  and  already  I  've  run  across 
people  I  'd  lost  sight  of  for  years  before  I  left 
England.  Now,  on  Monday,  for  instance,  I 
was  going  to  the  dressmaker's  when  I  met  a 
girl  I  used  to  know,  a  girl  called  Philippa 
Burton." 

"Philippa  Burton!"  echoed  Cecily,  with  in- 
terest. "  Why,  I  went  to  school  with  her.  A 
rather  pretty  dark  girl  ? " 

"Major  Burton's  daughter?  Yes?  How 
strange ! " 

"  Philippa  Burton  !  How  it  brings  all  the 
schooldays  back  ! "  exclaimed  Cecily,  with  a 
retrospective  laugh.  "  I  had  no  idea  you 
knew  her,  Rose.  When  did  you  meet  her  ?  " 

"That  year  I  went  to  Leipzig  to  study 
music,  you  know.  She  was  in  the  same 
pension,  studying  something  or  other  also ;  I 
forget  what.  Affectation,  I  should  think." 

"  But  she  had  brought  that  to  a  fine  art 
even  as  a  schoolgirl,"  Cecily  remarked.  "  Tell 
me  about  her.  We  left  school  the  same  term, 
I  remember.  Is  she  as  pretty  as  ever  ?  "  She 
spoke  with  animation,  obviously  glad  of  a 
topic  which  drew  conversation  away  from  per- 
sonal matters. 

"  Pretty?  —  yes,  in  a  floppy  fashion." 

Cecily  laughed.     "  Oh,  she  still  flops  ?     She 


The  Day's  Journey  17 

used  to  be  a  most  intense  young  woman. 
When  she  asked  you  to  pass  the  salt  at  dinner, 
you  felt  inclined  to  burst  into  tears.  She  was 
High  Church  when  I  knew  her,  but  that  was 
early  in  her  career." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there 's  been  Rationalism  since 
then,  and  Socialism,  and  Vegetarianism,  and 
Theosophy,  and  what  not.  Just  now  it's 
Sandals  and  the  Simple  Life,  whatever  that 
may  mean.  It  seems  to  cover  a  multitude  of 
complexities." 

"  Does  she  still  yearn  ?  " 

"  Oh,  horribly  !  She  begins  at  breakfast- 
time,  I  'm  sure.  She 's  doing  miniatures  and 
mystic  drawings  now." 

"  And  mouse-traps,  and  moonshine,  and 
everything  else  that  begins  with  an  M?  It 
sounds  like  Alice  in  Wonderland.  Go  on. 
I  'm  awfully  interested  to  hear  of  her  again. 
Even  as  a  schoolgirl  Philippa  posed  more 
than  any  other  human  being  I  've  ever  met." 

"  She  has  a  studio  in  Fulham  somewhere," 
Mrs.  Summers  continued.  "  I  happened  to 
be  quite  close  to  it  when  I  met  her,  and  she 
asked  me  to  come  in  to  tea.  She  had  grape- 
nuts  and  plasmon.  It's  astonishing  what 
lurid  views  of  life  can  be  nourished  upon  this 
apparently  mild  diet,"  she  added,  reflectively. 


1 8  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Are  Philippa's  views  lurid  ?  "  asked  Cecily. 

"  Oh,  my  uninstructed  married  ignorance 
is  to  blame,  of  course  ! "  declared  Mrs.  Sum- 
mers, with  a  meek  expression. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  A  great  many  things  —  most  of  them 
quite  unfit  for  publication.  But  the  latest 
and  simplest  gospel,  according  to  Burton,  ap- 
pears to  be,  '  Down  with  the  proprietary  view 
of  marriage.' ' 

Cecily  leaned  back  against  her  cushions. 
"Ah!"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Summers,  medita- 
tively, "there  should  be  room  in  life  for 
frank,  free  comradeship  —  camaraderie  was,  I 
think,  the  word  —  between  husbands  and  ladies 
who  are  living  the  Simple  Life.  Room  for 
beautiful,  breezy,  ennobling  friendships,  un- 
trammelled by  vulgar  jealousy  on  the  part  of 
the  wife." 

"  I  see,"  returned  Cecily.  "  And  is  the  wife 
to  have  beautiful,  breezy  friendships  too  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Liberty,  Fraternity  (presumably), 
and  Equality,  of  course." 

Cecily  was  silent  a  moment.  "  And  you 
don't  believe  in  that  kind  of  thing  ? "  she 
asked. 

Mrs.    Summers    shrugged    her    shoulders. 


The  Day's  Journey  19 

"My  dear,  I  haven't  lived  the  Simple  Life," 
she  returned,  dryly. 

"  Some  more  tea  ? "  Cecily  suggested. 
"  Well,  a  complicated  biscuit,  then  ?  I  'm 
afraid  I  have  n't  any  plasmon  in  the  house. 
I  wonder  now  whether  a  woman  like  Philippa 
Burton  is  more  of  a  hypocrite  or  a  self- 
deceiver  ? "  she  added,  thoughtfully,  after  a 
few  moments. 

"  About  her  theories,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Or  her  practices.  A  woman  seldom  has 
a  theory  without  a  concrete  example  to  illus- 
trate it.  Philippa  has  a  concrete  example, 
of  course  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  one  of  the  husbands  who  comes 
to  be  ennobled." 

"  Is  n't  his  wife  suited  to  the  task  ?  " 

"  Apparently  not.  He  is  a  great  genius, 
warped,  stifled,  suffocated  by  the  atmosphere 
of  domesticity." 

"  Poor  man,"  said  Cecily. 

"  The  wife's  crime,  as  far  as  I  can  under- 
stand," pursued  Mrs.  Summers,  "  is  her  ex- 
istence, and  from  Philippa's  point  of  view 
I  admit  it's  enough.  No  doubt  when  a 
man  's  tired  of  his  wife  it  is  awfully  annoying 
and  stultifying  to  his  genius.  But  somehow, 
while  Philippa  talked,  I  felt  rather  sorry  for 


20  The  Day's  Journey 

the  poor  little  woman  whose  mind  is  so  ill- 
balanced  that  she  can't  turn  off  her  emotions 
to  order." 

"  Is  the  man  in  love  with  Philippa,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Well,  as  he  generally  spends  several  hours 
a  day  with  her,  I  should  say  he  was  —  speak- 
ing of  the  human  man  as  I  know  him." 

"  And  Philippa  ?  "  asked  Cecily. 

"  Philippa,  my  dear,  has  sandals  and  an 
exalted  mind.  I  also  suspect  her  of  a  certain 
amount  of  concealed  jaeger,  —  and  she  thinks 
him  very  noble.  He  always  speaks  '  quite 
nicely '  of  his  wife."  Mrs.  Summers  paused, 
the  ironical  smile  deepening  upon  her  lips. 
"  Under  these  circumstances,"  she  continued, 
"  the  denouement  may  be  a  little  delayed." 

"  Ah  well !  "  observed  Cecily,  rising.  "  It 's 
a  very  common  little  story,  no  doubt."  There 
was  an  underlying  ring  of  bitterness  in  her 
words  which  did  not  escape  her  friend's  notice, 
as  she  too  got  up  from  the  bench.  "You'd 
like  to  come  to  your  room,  Rose  ?  Dinner  's  at 
half-past  seven." 

"  Oh,  common  enough,  of  course,"  returned 
Rose,  in  answer  to  her  first  remark.  "  There 's 
nothing  particularly  remarkable  about  Mr. 
Fergus  Macdonald,  I  should  imagine " 


The  Day's  Journey  21 

She  was  stooping  to  pick  up  her  handker- 
chief as  she  spoke,  when  a  half-articulate 
exclamation  made  her  sharply  raise  her  head. 

Cecily  was  standing  looking  at  her.  "  Mr. 

?  I  did  n't  catch  the  name,"  she  said,  in 

an  odd  voice. 

"Fergus  Macdonald,"  repeated  Rose.  "She 
did  n't  tell  me  his  name,  but  I  could  n't  help 
seeing  a  very  soulful  inscription  in  a  book. 
Why,  Cecily,  do  you  know  him  ? "  She 
stammered  over  the  last  words,  for  while  she 
spoke,  every  drop  of  color  had  ebbed  away 
from  the  other  woman's  face. 

"  Cecily  !  "  she  urged. 

Cecily  sank  into  the  seat  she  had  just  left. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
began  to  laugh. 

"  Cecily !  "  said  Mrs.  S.ummers  again. 
"  Don't,  Cecily  !  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  replied.  "  He 's  my  hus- 
band." 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence.  Rose 
noticed  the  long  shadows  on  the  grass,  was 
conscious  of  the  brilliance  of  a  bed  of  flowers 
in  the  sunset  light. 

"  Robert  I  "  she  whispered  at  last.  "  But 
how " 

"  It 's  his  writing  name,"  said  Cecily,  wearily. 


22  The  Day's  Journey 

She    had    left   off  laughing    now.      "  Oh,   of 
course,  you  did  n't  know,  dear.     As  you  say, 

you  have  been  out  of  things "  Her  voice 

trailed  off  without  finishing  the  sentence. 

Mrs.  Summers  mentally  reviewed  the  pre- 
ceding conversation.  "  O  Cis,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  I  could  kill  myself  for  it.  What  a 
fool  I  am  !  —  what  afoot  I  " 


CHAPTER   III 

"TTERE'S    Robert!"    exclaimed    Cecily, 

J.  J.  under  her  breath.  "  Don't  worry.  I  'm 
all  right.  It  does  n't  matter." 

Rose  saw  with  relief  that  though  her  face 
was  still  colorless  it  was  quite  calm,  and  almost 
before  she  had  realized  that  a  man  was  cross- 
ing the  lawn  towards  them,  she  heard  her 
voice  again. 

"  Robert,"  she  said,  "  it 's  Rose.  She  took 
me  by  surprise  to-day." 

Kingslake  put  out  his  hand,  smiling.  "  You 
have  been  expected  for  some  time.  Why,  it's 
—  how  many  years  ?  " 

"  Five,"  returned  Mrs.  Summers,  laconically. 

"  Only  five?  I  thought  it  was  longer."  He 
began  to  ask  about  the  journey,  the  date  of 
her  arrival,  all  the  conventional  questions  re- 
lating to  the  circumstances,  in  the  midst  of 
which,  as  Rose  observed,  he  had  apparently 
forgotten  a  greeting  to  his  wife.  He  turned 
to  her  at  last. 


24  The  Day's  Journey 

"Well,  dear!  I'm  rather  late."  He  put 
some  letters  on  the  tea-table.  "  The  post 's 
in.  I  found  these  in  the  hall." 

Cecily  took  them  up,  and  began  to  open 
the  envelopes. 

"  May  I,  Rose  ?  "  she  murmured,  absently. 

"  Do  sit  down,  Mrs.  Summers,"  urged 
Kingslake,  "  we  need  not  go  in  for  ten 
minutes." 

He  seated  himself  also  as  she  complied,  and 
while  he  continued  the  desultory  conversation 
he  had  begun  with  her,  Rose  noticed  that  he 
glanced  every  now  and  then  at  his  wife,  who 
was  deep  in  her  letters. 

At  first  sight  he  was  not  much  altered. 
He  was  still  the  good-looking,  rather  pictur- 
esque man  she  remembered ;  but  the  hint  of 
weakness  in  his  face  was  more  pronounced, 
and  the  lines  about  his  mouth  had  grown 
querulous.  As  she  talked,  Rose  watched  him 
curiously.  She  was  wondering  at  the  reason 
for  the  furtive  looks  he  occasionally  threw 
in  his  wife's  direction.  There  was  a  trace 
of  anxiety  in  his  face  for  which  she  could 
not  account.  Cecily's  correspondence  lasted 
for  some  time,  but  at  last  she  raised  her 
head. 

"  This  is  quite  remarkable,"  she  said,  in  a 


The  Day's  Journey  25 

voice  which  struck  Rose  as  rather  clearer  even 
than  her  usual  clear  tones.  "  I've  just  heard 
from  an  old  school-fellow — a  girl  I've  lost 
sight  of  for  years." 

Mrs.  Summers'  eyes  flashed  with  sudden 
comprehension. 

"  She  says  she  has  met  you,  Robert,"  con- 
tinued Cecily,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Oh  ?  May  I  smoke,  Mrs.  Summers  ?  " 
He  drew  out  his  cigarette-case.  "  Who  is  the 
lady  ?  " 

"  Philippa  Burton." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  She  was  dining  at  Lady  Wil- 
mot's  last  night."  He  threw  away  the  match. 
"  What  does  she  say  ?  " 

His  wife  began  to  read  :  — 

"  DEAR  CECILY,  —  You  will  wonder  who  is  ad- 
dressing you  in  this  familiar  fashion,  and  even  when 
you  look  at  the  signature,  I  wonder  whether  you  will 
remember  your  old  school-fellow  —  Philippa  Burton  ? 
I  am  writing  because,  after  this  week,  I  shall  be  a  near 
neighbor  of  yours.  I  have  broken  down  a  little, 
over  my  work;  my  doctor  has  ordered  me  country 
air,  and  I  find  the  village  to  which  he  is  sending  me 
is  your  village  !  Sheepcote  is  so  easy  of  access  to 
town  that  I  can  run  up  when  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary, do  as  much  work  as  I  am  allowed,  and,  1  hope, 
renew  my  friendship  with  you.  I  met  your  husband 


s6  The  Day's  Journey 

yesterday  at  Lady  Wilmot's.     What  a  charming  man 
he  is,  and  how  proud  you  must  be  of  him." 

"  Spare  my  blushes,"  interpolated  Kingslake, 
in  a  lazy  voice.  Cecily  concluded  — 

"  May  I  sign  myself,  as  in  old  days, 

"Affectionately  yours, 

"  PHILIPPA  BURTON." 

She  folded  the  letter  deliberately,  and  re- 
placed it  in  its  envelope. 

"  Well,  you  can  look  after  her  a  little,  can't 
you  ?  "  observed  Kingslake.  "  You  might  see 
about  getting  her  rooms,  perhaps  ?  Would  n't 
old  Mrs.  Green  take  her? — or  the  Watford 
woman  ?  But  this  is  n't  very  amusing  for 
Mrs.  Summers,  I  'm  afraid."  He  turned  to 
her  politely. 

"Oh,  on  the  contrary,"  she  answered, 
<f  these  bright,  brave  young  women  who  work 
for  their  living,  and  at  intervals  have  nervous 
breakdowns,  interest  me  enormously.  It 's  a 
new  type  to  me." 

Kingslake's  face  darkened  at  her  flippant 
tone. 

"  Ah  !  you  happy  married  women  who  are 
shielded  from  the  world  are  rather  slow  to 
understand  some  of  the  truths  of  life,"  he 


The  Day's  Journey  27 

observed,  a  note  of  indignation  struggling 
through  the  suavity  of  his  tone. 

"  Is  it  only  the  lies  we  encounter  then  — 
we  happy  married  women  ? "  she  returned, 
lightly.  "  That  does  n't  speak  well  for  the 
men  who  shield  us  !  " 

Cecily  rose.  "Come,"  she  said,  "it's  nearly 
dinner-time." 

Upstairs,  in  the  spare  room  to  which  she 
showed  her  friend,  Rose  turned  round  with 
sudden  vehemence.  "  Little  devil ! "  she 
exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  letter  her  cousin 
still  held.  "  It 's  a  feminine  masterpiece. 
Not  one  untrue  statement,  yet  a  lie  from 
beginning  to  end." 

Cecily  was  silent.  "  Don't !  "  she  said  at 
last,  under  her  breath.  "  I  've  got  to  get 
through  the  evening." 

Rose  glanced  at  her,  and,  without  speaking 
again,  let  her  go. 

When  Cecily  entered  her  bedroom,  Kings- 
lake  opened  his  dressing-room  door. 

"  Miss  Burton  told  me  she  was  a  school- 
fellow of  yours,"  he  began.  "  Were  you 
great  friends  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly,"  returned  Cecily,  taking 
her  tea-gown  from  the  wardrobe. 


28  The  Day's  Journey 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  She  seems  a  nice  sort  of  girl,"  he  con- 
tinued, tentatively. 

"  She  used  to  be  pretty,"  said  Cecily,  staring 
at  herself  in  the  glass  as  she  took  down  her 
hair.  "  Is  she  pretty  now  ?  " 

"Yes  —  rather.  At  least,  yes,  I  suppose 
she  is."  His  voice  was  studiedly  careless. 
"  Mrs.  Summers  has  n't  altered  much," 
he  continued.  "  Looks  very  young  still." 
He  pushed  the  door  wider,  and  came  into 
the  room  as  he  spoke,  still  fidgeting  with 
his  tie. 

"  We  're  a  contrast  in  that  respect,  are  n't 
we  ?  "  said  Cecily,  slowly.  "  I  Ve  altered  a 
great  deal  since  we  were  married,  have  n't  I, 
Robert  ?  "  She  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  glass  from  which,  as  she  arranged  her  hair, 
her  own  set  face  confronted  her. 

Robert  was  wandering  rather  aimlessly  about 
the  room.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Have  you  ?  " 
he  replied,  absently ;  then,  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  into  the  mirror,  "  You're  looking  very 
washy  just  now,"  he  added. 

His  wife  said  nothing,  and  presently  he 
flung  himself  on  the  window-seat,  and  began 
to  play  with  the  silver  ornaments  on  the 
dressing-table. 


The  Day's  Journey  29 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  whom  do  you  think  I  ran 
across  at  Waterloo  this  afternoon  ?  "  he  broke 
out  with  a  suddenness  obviously  premeditated. 
"  Mayne  —  Dick  Mayne,  you  know,  just 
home  from  Alaska,  or  Siberia,  or  wherever  it 
was." 

Cecily  pinned  on  the  brooch  in  front  of  her 
tea-gown  with  deliberation. 

"  Central  Africa,"  she  said.  "  Did  you 
speak  to  him  ?  " 

"  Speak  to  him  ?  Of  course,"  echoed  her 
husband.  "  I  asked  him  to  come  down  and 
stay  a  bit,"  he  added,  opening  and  shutting 
a  pin-box  while  he  spoke.  "  He 's  a  great 
fisherman,  fortunately,  or  else  I  don't  know 
what  amusement  we  could  offer  him  in  this 
God-forsaken  spot." 

He  glanced  at  Cecily. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  broke  out  impatiently,  after  a 
moment.  "  You  Ve  no  objection,  I  suppose  ? 
What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

She  began  to  put  on  her  rings,  very  slowly. 

"  Nothing  's  the  matter,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
only  thinking " 

"  Yes  ?  Thinking  what  ?  "  he  urged,  mov- 
ing irritably. 

"  How  jealous  you  used  to  be  of  Dick 
Mayne."  She  turned  from  the  glass,  and  her 


30  The  Day's  Journey 

eyes,  for  the  first  time,  met  her  husband's. 
He  evaded  their  glance  by  springing  up. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Cecily,"  he  began  angrily. 

"  What  nonsense !  I  do  hate  this "  The 

deep  sound  of  the  gong  down-stairs  cut  him 
short. 

"  Please  don't  let  us  discuss  it  now,"  she 
said,  and  moved  before  him  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   IV 

evening  had  worn  to  an  end — a 
A.  really  terrible  evening  for  Rose,  though 
both  she  and  Cecily  had  talked  and  laughed 
with  apparent  ease.  Cecily  followed  her 
cousin  into  her  bedroom,  lighted  the  candles, 
rearranged  the  curtains,  was  solicitous  for  her 
comfort,  and,  with  a  flow  of  light  talk,  kept 
her  at  a  distance. 

"  Good-night,  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  kissing 
her  hastily.  "You  must  be  dreadfully  tired. 
Don't  be  frightened  if  you  hear  a  footstep  on 
the  stair  in  the  small  hours.  Robert  does  n't 
generally  come  up  till  then.  He  writes  so 
late." 

Mrs.  Summers'  eyes  questioned  her  mutely, 
but  Cecily's  did  not  waver. 

"Jane  will  bring  your  tea  when  you  ring 
in  the  morning.  Good-night.  Sleep  well." 
She  went  out  smiling,  and  as  the  door  closed 
upon  her  Rose  moved  mechanically  to  the 
nearest  chair  and  sat  down.  She  felt  dazed 


j2  The  Day's  Journey 

and  stupid.  Emotions  had  succeeded  one 
another  so  rapidly  in  the  past  eight  hours 
that  the  state  of  mind  of  which  she  was 
most  acutely  conscious  was  bewilderment. 
Through  this  confused  sense,  however,  self- 
reproach  pierced  sharply.  How  like  one  of 
life's  practical  jokes  it  was,  to  bring  her 
thousands  of  miles  over-sea  to  tell  her  best 
friend  what  any  spiteful  acquaintance  in  the 
village  might  have  placed  within  her  knowl- 
edge. Mrs.  Summers  looked  round  the 
pretty,  peaceful  room  with  a  sense  of  oppres- 
sion. Over  the  windows,  the  rose-patterned 
chintz  curtains  hung  primly.  She  got  up  and 
pushed  them  aside,  and  then  blew  out  the 
candles.  A  lovely  night  had  succeeded  the 
lovely  day,  and  the  garden  was  magical  with 
moonlight.  Sweet  scents  rose  from  it.  Pools 
of  shadow  lay  on  the  silvered  grass.  Deep 
and  mysterious  the  great  trees  stood  massed 
against  the  luminous  sky. 

Rose  leaned  against  the  window-frame,  and  let 
the  silence  and  the  peace  quiet  her  thoughts, 
while  she  tried  to  realize  the  stranger  she 
had  found  in  the  place  of  the  old  impulsive 
Cecily.  It  was  the  self-control  that  chilled 
and  baffled  her,  even  while  she  admired  its 
exercise.  Mentally  she  reviewed  the  evening, 


The  Day's  Journey  33 

and  found  Cecily's  demeanor  excellent.  Her 
manner  towards  her  husband  had  been  per- 
fectly friendly.  A  stranger  seeing  them  to- 
gether, she  reflected,  would  have  thought 
them  on  very  good  terms,  though  Robert 
might  have  been  pronounced  rather  absent- 
minded  and  preoccupied.  At  the  remem- 
brance of  Kingslake,  Rose's  face  darkened. 

"  She  need  n't  have  taken  so  much  trouble," 
was  her  bitter  reflection.  "  He  would  n't  have 
noticed  even  if  she  'd  been  disagreeable.  His 
mind  was  elsewhere." 

To  Rose,  whose  recollection  of  Robert  was 
as  a  lover,  so  devoted  that  the  only  clear  idea 
she  had  retained  about  his  personality  was 
that  he  loved  Cecily,  —  to  Rose,  his  present 
obvious  indifference  seemed  a  thing  almost 
incredible.  It  brought  to  her,  as  nothing  else 
since  her  home-coming  had  brought  to  her, 
the  realization  that  five  years  is  long  —  that 
the  heart  of  life  may  oe  cut  out  with  its  passing. 

Mrs.  Summers  felt  her  eyes  dim  with 
sudden  tears.  She  was  hurt  at  her  friend's 
reticence.  The  Cecily  she  knew  had  vanished, 
and  with  her,  it  seemed,  she  had  taken  all 
youth,  all  keenness,  all  desire.  In  that  mo- 
ment of  disappointment,  Rose  had  a  horrible 
premonition  of  age. 

3 


34  The  Day's  Journey 

A  tap  at  the  door  startled  her.  While  she 
was  hurrying  towards  it,  across  the  moonlit 
room,  it  opened,  and  Cecily  came  in. 

She  was  in  a  long,  pale-colored  Japanese 
wrapper,  her  hair  all  loose  about  her  face. 
Standing  there  in  the  moonlight,  she  was  the 
girl  Mrs.  Summers  remembered,  and  with  a 
revulsion  of  feeling  too  glad  for  words  she 
took  her  by  the  arms  and  put  her  into  an 
easy-chair  near  the  window. 

"  It  was  so  lovely,  I  blew  out  the  candles," 
she  began. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Cecily,  absently.  She 
leaned  forward  and  touched  her  cousin's  dress 
with  trembling  ringers.  "  It  was  n't  because 
I  was  horrid  or  anything  that  I  did  n't  stay," 
she  said,  incoherently.  "  It  was  because  I  was 

afraid  to  begin.  I  'm  afraid  to  let  myself " 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  breast  with  a  gesture 
that,  to  Rose,  was  more  eloquent  than  the 
broken  sentence. 

"  Tell  me,  dear,"  she  urged.  "  I  would  have 
bitten  off  my  tongue  rather  than  have  said  all 
I  did  to-day,  but,  apart  from  that,  I  can't  help 
seeing  that  things  are  wrong  with  you.  I  felt 
it  from  the  first  moment.  It  made  me  nervous, 
I  suppose,  and  so  I  babbled  on  like  a  fool 
about  the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head." 


The  Day's  Journey  35 

"It  does  n't  matter,"  returned  Cecily,  in  a 
weak  voice.  "  It  is  n't  that." 

"Tell  me,"  urged  Rose  again. 

"It's  difficult,"  she  murmured,  after  a 
moment,  "  because  there  does  n't  seem  any- 
thing definite  to  tell.  It's  just  come  like 
this." 

There  was  a  silence  through  which  Mrs. 
Summers  waited  patiently. 

"  Rose,"  she  heard  at  last,  "  you  saw  Robert 
with  me,  before  you  went  away.  He  seemed 
in  love,  did  n't  he  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  quite  so  infatuated." 
Mrs.  Summers'  reply  was  emphatic. 

"  And  now  he  speaks  of  me  c  quite  nicely.' 
...  It  seems  strange,  does  n't  it  ?  "  She 
spoke  very  quietly,  as  though  she  were 
tired. 

"I  shall  never  forgive  myself!"  murmured 
Rose,  turning  her  head  away. 

Cecily  was  roused.  "  Don't  worry  about 
that !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It 's  almost  a  relief 
to  know  that  there  's  something  definite  —  that 
it's  not  only  just  boredom  —  with  me."  Be- 
fore Rose  could  speak,  she  added,  hastily,  as 
though  with  a  determination  to  get  out  the 
words,  "  Do  you  know  he 's  invited  Dick 
Mayne  to  stay  here  ?  " 


36  The  Day's  Journey 

Rose's  dress  rustled  with  her  quick  move- 
ment of  surprise.  "  He  I  Invited  Dick 
Mayne?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes  —  Dick  Mayne  —  to  amuse  me,"  re- 
plied Cecily.  In  the  moonlight  Rose  saw  the 
bitter  little  smile  on  her  lips. 

"But  surely  he  remembers  —  why,  he  used 
to  be  as  jealous  as " 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  Cecily,  with  a  mockery 
at  which  her  friend  winced.  "Jealousy  is  a 
vulgar  passion ! " 

"Don't!"  murmured  Mrs.  Summers, 
vaguely. 

"  No,"  returned  Cecily,  after  a  moment. 
"  Because  I  suppose  there  's  a  good  deal  to  be 
said  for  Robert.  I  did  n't  understand  the 
game.  I  did  n't  understand  men  a  bit  when 
I  married,  Rose,  though  I  knew  so  many. 
And  I  was  no  baby  either.  I  was  five-and- 
twenty." 

"  One  can  be  very  much  of  a  baby  at  five- 
and-twenty,"  observed  Mrs.  Summers. 

"You  see,  when  we  married,"  Cecily  went 
on,  in  the  same  even  voice,  "  Robert  wanted 
me  all  to  himself.  He  was  quite  unreasonable 
about  it.  He  was  hurt  because  I  urged  -that 
we  should  live  in  town.  ...  I  tried  to  have 
some  common-sense.  I  tried  to  look  ahead  — 


The  Day's  Journey  37 

for  both  of  us.  I  knew  in  my  heart  it  would 
be  bad  for  him  —  for  any  man  —  to  have  no 
circle,  to  drop  out  of  things.  But  he  would  n't 
see  it.  We  needed  only  one  another,  he  said. 
So  I  gave  in  at  last,  and  we  settled  down  here. 
And  naturally  we  dropped  out  of  all  the  town 
set.  You  know  how  easily  one  can  do  that, 
especially  when  there 's  very  little  money. 
And  we  had  very  little  indeed  at  first." 

Rose  nodded.     "  I  know,"  she  said. 

"At  first,  of  course,  for  the  first  year  or 
more  perhaps,  it  was  Paradise.  I  need  n't  bore 
you  with  all  that.  .  .  .  Then  at  the  end  of 
the  second  year,  baby  came  .  .  .  and  I  was 
awfully  happy.  Perhaps  even  then  Robert 
was  beginning  to  be  bored — I  don't  know. 
I  was  too  happy  to  suspect  it."  There  was  a 
long  pause.  As  she  talked,  Cecily  had  drawn 
herself  into  the  shadow,  so  that  her  face  was 
hidden ;  when  she  spoke  again  her  voice  was 
almost  inaudible. 

"  She  was  a  sweet  baby,  Rose.  .  .  .  Her  hair 
.  .  ."  She  checked  herself  abruptly,  with  a 
half  sob.  Mrs.  Summers'  hand  touched  hers. 
She  knew  the  whole  bitterness  of  the  tragedy. 
Cecily's  life  had  been  in  danger  at  the  birth  of 
her  little  girl,  and  later  she  had  written  that 
this  would  be  her  only  child. 


38  The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  got  very  ugly  after  that,"  she  went  on  at 
last.  "  I  fretted  so.  I  could  n't  help  it.  I 
must  have  been  very  dull  then.  I  dare  say 
I  did  n't  amuse  Robert." 

Mrs.  Summers  made  an  impatient  exclama- 
tion. 

"  Ah,  but  it  was  a  mistake  !  "  cried  Cecily  ; 
"  men  expect  to  be  amused.  If  we  want  to 
keep  them  we  must  work  .  hard.  .  .  .  And 
then  when  I  did  try  to  pull  myself  together 
and  be  cheerful,  it  was  too  late.  Nothing  I 
did  pleased  him.  If  I  put  on  a  pretty  frock 
he  never  noticed.  If  I  tried  to  talk  in  my  old 
way  —  I  used  to  be  quite  amusing  once,  was  n't 
I,  Rose?  "  She  broke  off  with  a  pathetic  little 
laugh.  "  When  I  fooled,  you  know,  he  was 
irritated,  and  asked  me  what  on  earth  I  was 
driving  at.  He  would  never  let  me  talk 
about  his  work.  He  said  it  annoyed  him  to 
have  it  c  pawed  over.' '  She  stopped  short, 
and  Rose  felt  her  trembling.  "  I  can't  tell 
you  all  of  it,"  she  whispered.  "It  hurts  too 
much." 

Mrs.  Summers  waited  a  few  moments. 

"  And  lately  he  has  begun  to  talk  about  the 
necessity  for  friendships,"  she  began,  in  a  voice 
purposely  hard  and  matter  of  fact. 

"Yes,"    she   continued,    "while   you    were 


The  Day's  Journey  39 

telling  me  about  that  girl  and  her  theories  it 
all  sounded  so  familiar." 

"  She  has  adopted  your  husband's  theories, 
you  think  ?  " 

Cecily  shook  her  head  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  No.  He  has  adopted  hers.  It 's  a  new 
phase  with  Robert.  That 's  why  I  Ve  been 
suspecting  a  fresh  influence  lately."  She  hesi- 
tated. "  Robert 's  like  that,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  He 's  susceptible  to  every  new  impression. 

He  reflects  everything  that "  She  paused. 

"It's  the  same  with  his  work,"  she  went 
on.  "  He  is  always  under  some  fresh  in- 
fluence. Lately  it 's  been  swashbuckling.  He  's 
made  money  out  of  that." 

"  Why,  his  work  used  to  be  psychologi- 
cal !  "  exclaimed  Rose.  "  Minute  analysis  and 
hair-splitting  distinctions ! " 

"  I  know.  That  was  one  of  the  phases. 
There  have  been  many  masters  since  then. 
And  now,  I  suppose,  there  will  be  as  many  — 
mistresses." 

She  spoke  with  a  quiet  irony,  more  painful 
than  any  display  of  grief.  It  was  the  tone  of 
a  woman  already  so  disillusioned  that  a  fact  more 
or  less  made  comparatively  little  difference. 

"  Cecily,"  ventured  Mrs.  Summers,  almost 
timidly,  "  there  may  be  nothing  wrong." 


40  The  Day's  Journey 

Cecily  made  a  weary  movement.  "  Do  you 
know,  that  seems  of  little  importance.  It's 
the  other  things  that  count,  and  when  they  Ve 

gone "  She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Outside,  the  garden,  all  vaporous,  blue  and 
silver,  was  like  a  vision.  Softly,  quite  softly 
at  first,  a  nightingale  began  to  sing,  each  note 
falling  like  a  drop  of  crystal  water  through 
the  blue  air.  Both  women  were  motionless 
till  the  song  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  murmured  Rose. 

"  I  shall  miss  this  garden,"  said  Cecily,  sud- 
denly. "  I  have  worked  in  it  for  three  years. 
Every  woman  ought  to  have  a  garden  —  then 
at  least  she  gets  some  of  the  roses  of  life.  Are 
you  happy  ? "  she  added,  almost  in  the  same 
breath,  with  startling  abruptness. 

Mrs.  Summers  hesitated.  "  Yes,"  she  re- 
turned, finally,  "  in  a  placid  way  —  yes.  But 
then,  I  'm  a  practical  woman.  I  always  left 
the  stars  out  of  my  calculations,  did  n't  I  ? 
Jack  and  I  suited  each  other.  We  have  con- 
tinued to  suit  each  other.  I  never  expected 
him  to  be  the  lover  of  romance.  Poor  dear ! 
he 's  not  at  all  made  for  the  part.  But  he 
wears  well,  you  know,  Cis.  And,"  her  voice 
softened,  "  I  have  the  babies." 


The  Day's  Journey  41 

Cecily  was  silent.  "  Yours  is  the  sane  view 
of  life,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  know ;  though  in  moods,  fortunately 
rare,  I  would  exchange  it  for  an  z'wsane  one,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Summers,  with  a  laugh.  "  Though 
I  leave  the  stars  out,  I  don't  forget  they  are 
there." 

"  I  wonder  ?  "  returned  Cecily. 

"  Are  you  going  to  say  anything  about  this 
to  your  husband  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Summers,  with 
apparent  irrelevance. 

"  No,"  said  Cecily,  briefly. 

"  And  Mayne  ?  Are  you  going  to  have 
him  down  here  ?  " 

"Yes.  Why  not?  If  Robert  wishes  it, 
how  can  I  object  ?  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  Dick  again,"  she  added. 

"  Is  it  wise  ?  " 

"That's  Robert's  affair." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Dick." 

"  That 's  his  affair.  He  had  my  answer 
long  ago,  and  he  knows  I  meant  it.  Besides," 
she  smiled  a  little,  "  don't  worry  —  I  've  lost 
my  looks." 

"  Dick  is  not  that  sort." 

"  Every  man  is  that  sort." 

Mrs.  Summers  glanced  at  her,  as  she  sat 
with  the  little  mocking  smile  still  on  her  lips. 


42  The  Day's  Journey 

"  O  Cis,  dear,"  she  murmured,  deprecat- 
ingly. 

Cecily  got  up.  "  I  must  go,"  she  said ; 
"  I  'm  wearing  you  out." 

Mrs.  Summers  also  rose.  With  a  sudden 
movement  she  drew  her  friend  into  her  arms. 
For  a  moment  Cecily  resisted.  Then  to  the 
elder  woman's  relief  she  broke  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

"  I  've  been  so  wretched,  Rose,"  she  whis- 
pered, incoherently.  "He  was  everything  to 
me.  All  the  world !  And  now  he  goes  to 
another  woman,  and  tells  her  all  the  things 

that  he  used  —  and  says  all  the  words  that 

Oh,  what 's  the  good  of  talking  !  "  she  wailed. 
"  It 's  all  over  and  done  with.  He  does  n't 
care  any  more.  And  I  suppose  he  can't  help 
it.  Sometimes  I  think  I  don't  care  either. 
And  then,  all  at  once " 

It  was  the  old  wail,  the  woman's  plaint, 
eternal  as  the  hills,  ever  recurring  as  the  wind 
and  the  rains  recur ;  as  monotonous  as  they. 


CHAPTER   V 

IT  was  Lady  Wilmot's  at-home  day,  but  so 
early  in  the  afternoon  that  she  could  still 
indulge  in  the  tete-a-tete  gossip  with  the  friend 
who   had  lunched  with   her,  a  branch  of  her 
life's  occupation  in  which  she  excelled. 

She  was  a  woman  who  supported  well  her 
fifty-five  years.  A  little  portly,  her  gray 
crinkled  hair  arranged  a  la  Marquise,  her  ample 
skirts  further  suggesting  the  era  of  powder  and 
patches,  her  bright  eyes  full  of  rather  malicious 
humor,  Lady  Wilmot  was  a  somewhat  strik- 
ing figure.  That  she  was  more  feared  than 
loved  probably  flattered  the  vanity  which  was 
not  the  least  of  her  characteristics.  The  cir- 
cumstance certainly  did  not  affect  her.  Pos- 
sessed of  an  income  sufficiently  large  to  make 
the  exercise  of  life's  amenities  a  matter  of 
inclination  rather  than  of  necessity,  her  inclin- 
ation was  naturally  capricious,  and  she  not 
infrequently  smiled  to  hear  herself  described 
with  a  nervous  laugh  as  "  so  delightfully 
uncommon." 


44  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Uncommon  rude,  my  dear,"  had  been  her 
reply  in  one  instance,  "  as  you  would  have  dis- 
covered if  I  had  happened  to  be  Mrs.  Brown, 
Mrs.  Smith,  or  Mrs.  Robinson." 

As  it  was,  Lady  Wilmot's  parties  were 
attended  by  as  heterogeneous  a  throng  as  any 
private  house  in  London.  In  search  of 
possible  amusement,  she  cast  her  net  wide, 
and,  in  company  with  men  and  women  of  her 
own  sort,  drew  into  the  Onslow  Square 
drawing-room,  journalists  who  wrote  fashion 
articles,  novelists  who  went  into  many  editions, 
painters  whose  imposing  canvases  appeared 
every  year  on  the  sacred  walls  of  the  Academy, 
as  well  as  those  who  worked  in  Chelsea  garrets. 
Then  there  were  the  faddists. 

"  I  have  the  best  collection  in  London," 
Lady  Wilmot  was  wont  to  boast.  "  I  have 
several  excellent  antique  Vegetarians,  a  very 
good  color,  considering ;  a  complete  set  of 
Mystics,  only  slightly  cracked;  any  number 
of  women  athletes  in  a  fairly  good  state  of 
preservation,  as  well  as  one  or  two  interesting 
oddments." 

Lady  Wilmot's  present  guest  was  her  niece, 
a  sharp-faced  little  woman,  who  for  two  or 
three  years  had  been  living  quietly  in  the 
country  on  account  of  her  health.  This  fact 


The  Day's  Journey  45 

at  least  was  stimulating.  It  meant  arrears  of 
gossip  to  be  retailed  respecting  the  life-history 
of  their  common  acquaintances,  and  since 
half-past  one  Lady  Wilmot's  tongue  had  not 
been  idle. 

The  doings  of  the  immediate  family  lasted 
through  a  protracted  and  hilarious  lunch,  and 
when,  somewhat  maimed  and  damaged,  its  mem- 
bers had  been  dismissed,  there  still  remained 
the  concentric  circles  of  acquaintances.  Lady 
Wilmot  began  at  the  inner  rings. 

"  You  know  Rose  Summers  is  home  ?  "  she 
said,  settling  the  fat  cushions  at  her  back  with 
a  view  to  lengthy  comfort.  "  No,  dear, 
without  her  gaby  of  a  husband.  She 's  left 
him  out  there  to  get  into  mischief.  Oh,  yes, 
my  dear,  he 's  not  too  great  a  fool  for  that. 
None  of  them  are.  Did  you  never  meet 
Jack  Summers  ?  A  huge  imbecile,  you  know. 
Over  life-size,  all  body  and  no  brains.  The 
ideal  man  for  a  soldier." 

"  Rose  had  enough  brains  for  two,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Carruthers. 

"  Yes,  but  no  looks.  Most  unfortunate 
arrangement  for  a  woman.  She  has  to  marry 
a  man  stupid  enough  not  to  know  she  's  got 
them.  She  's  staying  with  Cecily  Kingslake." 

"  Oh,     tell     me     about     the     Kingslakes," 


46  The  Day's  Journey 

asked  Mrs.  Carruthers,  with  interest.  "  They 
were  just  married  the  last  time  I  met  them. 
I  used  to  think  Cecily  so  pretty.  What  a 
mistake  to  make  such  a  poor  match  ! " 

"  You  should  see  her  now,"  returned  Lady 
Wilmot,  composedly. 

"  Gone  off?  " 

"  Gone  under.  Buried  beneath  honey- 
suckle and  green  stuff.  The  worst  of  love  in 
a  cottage  is  that  love  does  n't  last,  and  the 
cottage  does." 

"But  I  thought  Robert  was  getting  on? 
Some  one  was  talking  about  his  last  book  the 
other  day,  and  saying " 

"  Yes,  quite  lately  he 's  been  making 
money.  There  was  always  a  popular  streak 
in  Robert  which  only  needed  working.  Some 
woman 's  shown  him  where  it  lies,  and  he 's 
got  it  in  full  swing  now,  so  the  guineas  are 
beginning  to  roll  in." 

"  Why  some  woman  ?  " 

Lady  Wilmot  chuckled.  "  Don't  you 
know  our  Robert?  A  clever  woman  laughs 
when  she  sees  him  coming." 

"  Susceptible  ?  " 

"  That 's  putting  it  mildly.  All  men  can 
take  flattery  in  gigantic  doses.  Robert  lives 
on  it  entirely.  He  dined  here  last  night. 


The  Day's  Journey  47 

Incidentally  he  ate  his  dinner,  but  his  true 
meal  was  provided  by  the  girl  he  took  down, 
who  flung  at  him  pounds  of  the  best  butter,  — 
solid  pounds.  I  blushed  for  her  and  trembled 
for  him,  but  I  might  have  spared  myself  the 
trouble.  She 's  too  clever,  and  he  has  too 
good  a  digestion." 

"  Did  n't  his  wife  come  ?  " 

"  No.  He  comes  up  to  town  ( to  read,'  if 
one  may  believe  him.  And  I  happened  to 
have  asked  Philippa  Burton  and  young 
Nevern  in  to  dine  last  night  —  not  a  dinner- 
party—  so  I  invited  Robert  too." 

"Perhaps  she's  the  lady  who  inspires  the 
new  style  of  writing  ? "  observed  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers,  building  better  than  she  knew. 

"  She  's  quite  capable  of  it,"  returned  Lady 
Wilmot,  "  but  they  only  met  last  night.  She 
has  designs  on  Nevern,  I  think,  temporarily 
abandoned  for  Robert.  She 's  coming  this 
afternoon,  by  the  way."  Lady  Wilmot 
laughed  again.  "  I  asked  her  on  purpose 
to  meet  Dick  Mayne.  I  thought  they  'd  be 
so  quaint  together." 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  her  niece. 

"  You  have  n't  seen  Philippa  ?  She's  one  of 
the  most  interesting  objects  in  my  collection.'* 

"  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  " 


48  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Don't  you  remember  Major  Burton,  that 
seedy-looking  man  at  Cheltenham  ?  Retired, 
you  know,  on  half-pay.  Used  to  be  in  your 
father's  regiment.  Well,  she's  his  daughter. 
He  died  some  five  or  six  years  ago,  leaving 
her  next  to  nothing,  and  now  she  potters  about. 
You  know  the  sort  of  thing  such  girls  do ; 
tinkering  with  copper,  messing  about  with 
furnaces  to  make  enamel  hat-pins,  designing 
horrible,  bleak-looking  furniture,  and  so  on." 
"  Does  she  get  a  living  at  that  ?  " 
"  My  dear,  don't  ask  me  to  probe  the 
mysteries  of  a  woman's  income,"  exclaimed 
her  hostess  with  a  laugh.  "  She 's  pretty,  and 
evidently  she  finds  sandals  and  mystic  gowns 
useful.  When  a  woman 's  not  sufficiently 
original  to  get  money  or  notoriety  by  her 
brains,  she  often  achieves  both  through  her 
fads.  Philippa  is  one  of  those  young  women 
who  will  always  be  £  taken  up '  by  some  one. 
Silly  spinsters  of  uncertain  age  have  a  habit  of 
doing  it.  She 's  just  been  living  with  one  of 
them  who  adored  her  —  thought  her  a  tran- 
scendent genius  instead  of  a  clever  little  hum- 
bug. Now  the  smash  has  come.  If  you 
mention  Miss  Wetherby  to  Philippa,  she  looks 
pained  and  sighs :  ( It  is  so  sad  to  lose  one  's 
illusions.  Miss  Wetherby  is  not  quite  the  fine 


The  Day's  Journey  49 

woman  I  thought  her.'  What  Miss  Wetherby 
says  about  Philippa,  I  don't  know  —  I  'm  not 
acquainted  with  the  lady  —  but  I  can  guess. 
There  used  to  be  a  man  about.  What 's  be- 
come of  him  now  I  don't  know.  Another 
illusion  gone,  possibly.  Philippa  's  mysterious 
in  more  ways  than  one.  But  there,  my  dear, 
what  does  it  matter  ?  If  you  begin  to  be 
moral,  you  lose  half  the  fun  of  life.  I  'm 
strictly  unmoral  on  principle  —  unmoral  's  such 
a  good  word,  is  n't  it  ?  Anyhow  I  'm  looking 
forward  to  the  meeting  between  Philippa  and 
Dick  Mayne.  He  does  n't  know  the  type, 
and  she  '11  embarrass  him  so  beautifully.  I 
hope  she  '11  try  to  flirt  with  him.  I  think  I 
shall  scream  with  joy  if  she  does.  It  will  be 
too  funny." 

"You  know  Mr.  Mayne  is  going  to  stay 
with  the  Kingslakes  ?  "  gasped  Mrs.  Carruthers, 
placing  edgeways  with  difficulty  her  little  con- 
tribution to  "  the  news." 

"No!"  It  was  a  piece  of  information 
that  had  hitherto  escaped  her  aunt,  whose 
manner  of  receiving  it  caused  Mrs.  Carruthers 
to  bridle  with  importance. 

"  Yes,  I  happened  to  meet  him  yesterday 
at  the  Vezeys',  and  he  told  me  so.  Why 
should  n't  he  ?  " 

4 


50  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Why,  you  know  how  desperately  in  love 
he  was  with  Cecily." 

"  But  that  was  years  ago." 

"  When  they  were  engaged  ?  Yes.  My 
dear,  if  you  'd  heard  Robert's  ravings  at  the 
time  !  Heavens  !  how  funny  it  was  !  He 
and  Cecily  nearly  came  to  grief  over  it,  because 
Cecily  said  Mayne  was  an  old  friend,  and  she 
could  n't  refuse  to  see  him,  which  was,  I  be- 
lieve, what  the  lunatic  wanted  her  to  promise. 
Robert's  my  godson,  and  he's  good-looking 
enough  to  make  me  quite  fond  of  him,  but 
he 's  a  heaven-born  fool  for  all  that.  Have 
you  ever  heard  his  rhetoric  when  he  's  excited  ? 
You  should.  It 's  worthy  of  a  successful 
melodrama.  He  used  to  d6  the  romantic 
hero-in-love  to  perfection.  His  feeling  for 
Cecily  was  such  that  it  was  a  profanation  for 
any  other  man  to  touch  her  hand,  and  did  I 
think  a  woman  who  allowed  a  rejected  suitor 
to  have  tea  in  the  same  drawing-room  with 
her,  could  possess  that  burning,  white-souled 
adoration  for  her  affianced  husband  which  he 
required  from  the  woman  who  was  to  bear  his 
name  ?  I  offered  him  the  impossible  advice 
of  not  being  a  fool,  and  Mayne  went  away  to 
catch  tigers  and  fevers  —  and  the  public  ear." 

"Yes,    he's    done    that,"    returned    Mrs. 


The  Day's  Journey  51 

Carruthers.  "  He 's  quite  a  great  man  now 
—  the  papers  are  full  of  him." 

"  Mr.  Mayne,"  announced  the  footman  at 
the  door. 

"  We  were  talking  about  you,"  said  Lady 
Wilmot,  rising  graciously. 

"  I  was  unconscious  of  my  danger,"  re- 
turned Mayne,  with  an  audacious  smile  which 
met  its  friendly  response.  Mayne  was,  with 
Lady  Wilmot,  a  privileged  person,  chiefly 
because  he  took  her  maliciousness  for  granted. 

"  You  Ve  grown,"  she  remarked,  regarding 
with  critical  attention  his  bronzed  face  and  tall, 
well-knit  figure. 

"  What  did  you  expect  ?  I  was  but  a  lad 
of  thirty  when  I  left  you."  He  had  shaken 
hands  with  Mrs.  Carruthers,  and  seated  him- 
self on  the  end  of  a  divan  by  this  time  — 
very  much  at  his  ease. 

"  You  're  much  better  looking,"  was  Lady 
Wilmot's  next  comment. 

"  I  can  bear  it,"  he  returned,  imperturbably. 
"  If  I  say  you  have  n't  altered  at  all  it 's  the 
best  compliment  I  can  pay  you." 

"  I  will  ignore  its  lack  of  truthfulness,  and 
give  you  some  tea,"  she  said,  crossing  to  the 
tea-table.  "  Are  you  going  to  read  any  more 
papers  this  time  ?  Why  did  n't  you  come 


52  The  Day's  Journey 

to  see  me  when  you    were    home    two    years 
ago?" 

"  Because,  dear  lady,  you  were  abroad." 

"  Was  I  ?  So  I  was.  Who  did  you  see 
then  ?  Did  you  see  the  Kingslakes  ?  "  She 
shot  a  glance  at  him  as  he  rose  to  take  the 
cup  she  offered,  but  his  face  was  immovable. 

"  I  did  n't  see  any  one.  After  reading 
an  exceedingly  dull  paper  before  the  Royal 
Society,  I  fled  to  the  shelter  of  the  paternal 
roof  in  Ireland,  desperately  ashamed  of 
myself." 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  ask  you  about  your 
travels  and  explorings,  do  you  ?  It  would 
bore  me  a  great  deal  to  hear  them.  Sugar? " 

"  Thanks,  no.  Not  half  so  much,  I  'm 
sure,  as  it  would  bore  me  to  tell  them.  I 
came  to  hear  all  the  latest  scandal.  Won't 
you  begin  before  the  actors  arrive  ? " 

"  Miss  Burton,"  said  the  man  at  the  door. 

"  Too  late  !  "  ejaculated  Lady  Wilmot,  as 
she  went  forward  to  meet  her  new  guest. 
'  "  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Philippa,  my  dear  ? 
Did  you  bring  an  escort  of  police  ?  —  or  is  the 
untutored  savage  getting  used  to  sandals  ? 
My  dear,  where  will  your  hair  stop  ?  You 
look  like  Melisande.  Can't  you  throw  some 
of  it  out  of  the  window  ?  Mr.  Mayne  will 


The  Day's  Journey  5j 

run  down  and  climb  up.  He's  used  to 
athletic  exercises.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Mayne 
—  Miss  Burton.  Now  you  can  go  and  talk 
lions  and  things.  He 's  an  explorer,  you 
know.  Here  's  Mr.  Nevern.  He  '11  have  to 
put  up  with  me.  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Nevern  ? " 

During  these  somewhat  incoherent  remarks 
Miss  Burton  had  adopted  the  simple  ex- 
pedient of  doing  nothing,  and,  as  Mayne 
was  constrained  to  admit,  doing  it  rather 
well. 

She  stood  with  a  faint,  dreamy  smile  just 
touching  her  lips,  and  waited  till  there  was 
an  opportunity  of  offering  her  hand  to  Mayne. 
This  she  did  with  a  slow  movement,  accord- 
ing to  the  state  of  mind  of  its  recipient, 
subtly  graceful,  or  somewhat  affected.  Rather 
characteristically  Mayne  inclined  to  the  least 
flattering  of  these  strictures.  He  did  not 
like  "  that  kind  of  thing,"  even  though  in 
this  instance  it  was  the  act  of  a  woman  by 
many  people  considered  beautiful. 

Philippa  Burton's  tall  figure  was  of  the 
sinuous  type,  and  she  clothed  it  in  trailing 
garments  cut  on  the  latest  hygienic  principle, 
combining  conspicuousness  with  impractica- 
bility. The  robe  she  now  wore  was  of  some 


54  The  Day's  Journey 

coarse  white  material,  a  little  soiled  at  the 
hem  where  it  trailed,  and  a  little  too  low  at 
the  neck,  where  several  necklaces  of  beads 
were  wound  about  a  full  white  throat.  Her 
hat,  of  that  peculiar  make  which  flies  from  the 
head,  and  is  restrained  by  ribbons  tied  under 
the  ear,  revealed,  rather  than  covered,  quanti- 
ties of  dark,  rippling  hair  of  the  Rossetti  texture. 

Her  dark  eyes,  full  of  a  cultivated  mystery, 
very  effectively  lit  a  pale  face,  whose  excessive 
spirituality  was  redeemed  by  full  red  lips. 

"  You  are  the  Mr.  Mayne  ? "  she  began, 
with  an  elusive  smile.  "  I  read  your  travel- 
book.  It  is  wonderful.  A  book  that  sets  the 
blood  racing  in  one  's  veins.  You  are  one  of 
the  strong  men.  I  worship  strength  in  men." 

Mayne  felt  uncomfortable.  He  had  been 
out  of  the  civilized  world  for  some  time,  and 
was  new  to  the  fashion  of  emotional  conver- 
sation in  drawing-rooms  and  omnibuses. 

"  Oh  —  my  little  book  !  "  he  answered,  care- 
lessly. "  I  can't  write  a  bit,  you  know.  It 
was  awful  stuff.  At  least,  the  way  it  was  put 
together.  The  material  was  all  right." 

"  But  indeed  you  do  yourself  injustice," 
Philippa  returned,  in  her  peculiar  low  voice, 
as  always,  surcharged  with  feeling.  "  Mr. 
Kingslake  was  saying  only  the  other  night  how 


The  Day's  Journey  55 

wonderfully  vivid  is  your  style.  So  much 
color  —  so  much " 

"  You  know  Robert  Kingslake  ? "  inter- 
rupted Mayne,  with  interest. 

"  We  met  here  the  other  night,  at  dinner," 
she  said,  fixing  her  wonderful  eyes  upon  his 
face  in  an  abstracted  way.  "  What  a  charming 
man !  He  has  a  beautiful  soul,  I  'm  sure. 
There  is  poetry  in  his  work,  idealism " 

"  He 's  made  a  lot  of  money  over  this  last 
novel  of  his,"  remarked  Mayne,  a  little 
brutally. 

"  Yes.  Does  n't  that  show  that  the  world 
is  waiting  for  a  message  ?  The  poor  sad 
world  that  longs  to  be  shown  the  beauty  it 
is  missing." 

"  I  had  n't  noticed  it,"  returned  Mayne. 
"  But  then  I  have  n't  seen  much  of  the  paying 
world  lately." 

"  One  must  have  faith,"  said  Philippa,  softly. 
"  The  faith  that  removes  mountains." 

"  And  brings  in  the  shekels,"  laughed 
Mayne.  "  Kingslake's  has  been  justified, 
anyway.  I  'm  going  down  there  next  week," 
he  added,  for  the  sake  of  changing  the  rarefied 
atmosphere  of  the  conversation.  "  To  Sheep- 
cote,  you  know,  with  the  Kingslakes." 

"Yes,  so   Mr.   Macdonald   told  me  —  Mr. 


56  The  Day's  Journey 

Kingslake,  I  mean.  I  knew  his  work  first 
through  his  now  de  guerre^  and  1  can  scarcely 
think  of  him  yet  as  Mr.  Kingslake.  We  shall 
meet  again,  then,"  she  went  on.  "  I  'm  going 
to  Sheepcote  too." 

"  What 's  that  ? "  asked  Lady  Wilmot,  who, 
as  Mayne  rightly  surmised,  had  been  keeping 
one  amused  ear  upon  the  conversation,  while 
she  failed  to  listen  to  Mr.  Nevern  with  the 
other.  "What's  that?  You  going  down  to 
Sheepcote,  Philippa  ?  What  for  ?  " 

"  So  strange  !  "  returned  Philippa,  absolutely 
undisconcerted  by  the  brusque  impertinence 
of  the  question,  and  she  recounted  the  infor- 
mation she  had  written  to  Cecily.  "  And  do 
you  know,  dear  Lady  Wilmot,  that  I  went  to 
school  with  Mrs.  Kingslake  —  Cecily  Meri- 
vale  ?  Was  n't  it  a  charming  discovery  to 
make  ?  I  'm  longing  to  meet  her  again. 
Dear  Cecily  !  I  have  n't  seen  her  since  she 
was  about  seventeen.  She  was  so  pretty." 

"  Well,  if  it 's  her  looks  you  care  about, 
you  '11  be  disappointed.  She 's  lost  them. 
I  Ve  no  patience  with  a  woman  who  loses  her 
looks.  It's  so  careless." 

"  But,  dear  Lady  Wilmot,"  began  Philippa, 
with  a  tender  smile,  "  after  all,  do  looks 
matter  ?  " 


The  Day's  Journey  57 

"  Don't  be  a  humbug,  my  dear.  You  know 
they  do,"  returned  her  hostess  with  finality. 

Mayne  rose.  "  Don't  go,  I  have  n't  spoken 
to  you,"  Lady  Wilmot  commanded.  "  Now, 
Mr.  Nevern,  you  can  talk  to  Philippa.  So 
you  are  going  to  stay  with  the  Kingslakes  ? " 

"  Kingslake  asked  me  to  go  down  —  yes." 

"  I  thought  you  and  he  were  not  the  best 
of  friends  ?  " 

Mayne  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  smile. 
"  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  quarrel." 

"Quarrel?  No,  but "  She  paused.  It 

was  difficult  even  for  Lady  Wilmot  to  continue, 
before  the  impassivity  of  his  face. 

"  I  'm  sorry  Cecily  is  not  looking  well,"  he 
said,  deliberately  mentioning  the  name  he 
knew  trembled  on  her  tongue.  "  Diana  told 
me.  I  went  to  see  her  yesterday.  Diana 's 
grown,"  he  added,  with  a  broad  smile. 

"  Grown  up.  How  do  you  like  Philippa  ?  " 
she  inquired,  in  a  slightly  lower  tone,  as  she 
walked  with  him  to  the  door. 

"  There  are  questions  of  yours  which  I  have 
always  resolutely  refused  to  answer." 

Lady  Wilmot  laughed  with  evident  enjoy- 
ment. 

"  You  felt  what  a  little  boy  feels  when  some 
one  sings  a  hymn  in  the  drawing-room  on 


58  The  Day's  Journey 

week-days,"  she  declared.  "  Turn  round. 
She's  telling  Nevern  what  a  beautiful  soul 
he  's  got." 

Involuntarily,  Mayne  followed  the  direction 
of  her  eyes.  Mr.  Nevern,  a  round-faced  young 
poet,  was  leaning  towards  Miss  Burton,  and 
regarding  her  with  an  expression  in  which  flat- 
tered vanity  struggled  with  boyish  admiration, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  Mayne  checked 
the  laugh  his  hostess  had  been  anxious  to 
provoke. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  I  meant  what  I 
told  you.  You  have  n't  altered  a  bit  —  in  any 
way." 


CHAPTER  VI 

ROSE  SUMMERS  had  gone,  and  during 
the  week  which  separated  her  departure 
from  Mayne's  expected  visit,  Cecily  spent  the 
long  solitary  days  in  the  garden.  Early  every 
morning  Robert  cycled  to  the  station.  There 
was  always  a  little  fuss  and  confusion  before  he 
started.  Robert  was  more  helpless  than  most 
men.  He  could  never  find  anything.  His 
cigarette-case  was  lost,  and  when  it  was  dis- 

D  * 

covered  by  Cecily  under  a  heap  of  papers  in 
his  study,  there  were  no  cigarettes  left.  She 
must  open  a  fresh  box ;  she  must  run  to  find 
his  notes  without  which  he  could  not  get  on  at 
the  Museum.  Always,  since  their  marriage, 
Cecily  had  been  at  hand  to  perform  these  little 
services,  which  had  gradually  become  a  matter 
of  habit  to  both  of  them. 

For  the  last  few  days,  however,  as  she  ran 
from  the  dining-room  to  the  study,  and  from 
the  study  to  the  flagged  courtyard,  where 
Robert  was  feverishly  busy  at  the  last  moment, 


60  The  Day's  Journey 

adjusting  bicycle  screws,  and  blowing  up  tires, 
Cecily's  mind  was  active.  She  thought  of  early 
days,  and  of  the  joy  of  discovering  that  Robert 
was  such  a  child,  needing  so  much  care,  and,  in 
little  things,  so  dependent  upon  her.  She  re- 
membered his  kisses,  his  words  of  extravagant 
praise  when  she  found  one  of  the  many  things 
he  had  lost,  the  brightening  of  his  eyes  when 
he  saw  her  running  downstairs. 

To-day,  just  as  he  was  started,  she  had  found 
a  note-book  he  had  evidently  intended  to  take, 
lying  on  the  hall  table,  and  she  had  dashed  out 
with  it.  He  had  travelled  a  few  paces  down 
the  lane  when  she  called  to  him,  and  with  an 
irritable  exclamation  he  had  dismounted  and 
returned,  wheeling  his  bicycle  with  one  hand, 
and  reaching  for  the  book  with  the  other. 

"  It  did  n't  matter,"  he  muttered,  and  absent- 
mindedly  took  the  book  without  thanks,  and 
rode  off. 

Cecily  stood  leaning  upon  the  gate,  watching 
his  retreating  figure.  Presently  her  lips  parted 
in  a  bitter  smile.  "  No.  It  did  n't  matter. 
He  won't  use  notes  to-day,"  she  thought,  and 
quietly  retraced  her  steps  up  the  flagged  path, 
through  the  hall,  and  out  into  the  garden. 

She  went  at  once  to  her  favorite  seat  under 
the  beech  tree  and  sat  down.  For  the  last  few 


The  Day's  Journey  61 

days  she  had  done  this  almost  mechanically. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  do  anything  else.  She 
idly  sat  there  with  a  book  on  her  lap,  and  let 
thoughts  sweep  through  her  mind.  Thoughts 
and  memories —  memories  of  past  caresses,  of 
intimate  talks,  when  she  and  Robert  had  been 
really  one;  when  to  disassociate  her  mind  from 
Robert's  would  have  seemed  an  absurdity  at 
which  to  smile.  She  and  Robert  had  been  like 
that  —  she  could  not  even  to  herself  phrase  it 
otherwise.  And  it  was  possible  that  he  could 
forget,  ignore,  wipe  it  all  out,  and  begin  again 
with  some  one  else  ;  begin  the  same  dear  words, 
the  same  intimacies,  convey  to  this  other 
woman  the  same  belief  that  it  was  she,  she, 
out  of  all  the  world,  who  mattered,  who  meant 
the  heart  of  life  to  him  ? 

Though  the  process  of  disillusion,  of  the 
overshadowing  of  her  happiness,  had  been  a 
gradual  one,  this  fresh  knowledge  had  the 
effect  of  reviving  with  intolerable  poignancy 
the  memory  of  the  early  sunshine,  the  early 
sense  of  being  blessed  above  all  women.  It 
placed  that  memory  in  bitter  contrast  to  her 
outlook  of  to-day. 

"  Fool  that  I  was  ! "  she  whispered,  draw- 
ing in  her  breath  with  a  spasm  of  physical 
pain.  "  What  a  fool  !  "  Her  partly  realized 


62  The  Day's  Journey 

thoughts  ran  on,  ran  high,  like  tumultuous 
waves.  "It's  a  common  experience.  Why 
should  I  escape  ?  Men  are  like  that.  I 
knew  it  theoretically.  Why  should  I  have 

thought  that  Robert "  And  then  would 

come  the  impotent  rush  of  protest  and  despair. 
It  was  just  that !  He  was  Robert,  and  mad, 
childish,  futile  as  it  was,  it  was  just  that  which 
made  the  truth  impossible. 

She  looked  round  her.  The  sunshine  on 
the  grass  was  hateful,  the  warm  blue  sky  an 
insult.  All  beauty  was  a  lie,  a  meaningless, 
soulless  lie,  like  the  love  of  men  and  women, 
which  held  no  faith,  no  steadfastness,  no  pity 
even. 

She  thought  of  her  five  years  of  married 
life.  Five  years  of  self-immolation  in  which 
she  had  known  no  desires,  no  ambitions,  no 
joys  except  through  the  desires,  the  ambitions, 
the  joys  of  her  husband.  "All  wasted,  all 
no  good,  —  no  good,"  she  wailed  unconsciously 
in  her  misery,  saying  the  words  half  aloud. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  began  to  pace 
restlessly  to  and  fro  between  the  borders  of 
flowers  she  had  planted  and  tended.  The 
sight  of  them  reminded  her  of  how  they  had 
come  into  their  existence.  She  remembered 
how  she  had  fought  to  still  some  of  her  first 


The  Day's  Journey  63 

heartaches  with  the  planting  of  these  lilies, 
the  pruning  of  that  rose-bush.  It  had  been 
a  relief  to  work  hard,  manually,  while  she 
hoped  that  the  old  glamour  would  return 
and  once  more  descend  upon  their  lives.  Now 
the  roses  mocked  her  with  their  glowing, 
passionate  faces. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 
Over  and  over  again  the  despairing  question 
welled  up  into  her  mind. 

It  was  out  of  these  long  blue  summer  days, 
which  for  her  held  nothing  but  chaotic  memo- 
ries, rebellious  and  hopeless  thought,  that  self- 
condemnation  and  a  resolve  grew  slowly  in 
Cecily's  mind.  She  had  been  wrong,  wrong 
so  to  sink  her  individuality.  It  had  been  one 
of  those  mistakes  for  which  one  suffers  more 
than  for  one's  sins.  She  had  been  lacking  in 
self-respect.  It  was  time  she  found  herself 
again  —  a  miserable,  shattered,  helpless  self, 
it  was  true,  but  a  self  for  all  that.  From  the 
outset  she  had  dismissed  the  idea  of  telling 
her  husband  of  Rose's  unconscious  revelation. 
With  a  sick  prevision  she  had  imagined  the 
whole  scene,  heard  his  "  reasons "  for  not 
having  told  her  of  a  "  perfectly  harmless 
friendship."  .  .  .  Women  were  so  deplorably 
jealous  ;  they  could  not  take  large  views  ;  they 


64  The  Day's  Journey 

refused  to  believe  in  ennobling  companion- 
ships ;  they  deliberately  stunted  their  spiritual 
growth  by  attributing  base  motives.  .  .  .  There 
was  no  need  to  sketch  out  further  the  inevitable 
line  of  defence.  She  knew  Robert's  powers  of 
rhetoric,  she  knew  now  whence  came  the  in- 
fluence which  had  lately  directed  its  nature, 
and  with  a  weary  sigh  she  recognized  the 
futility  of  provoking  a  discussion.  It  would 
be  enough  to  take  the  step  she  intended,  with- 
out assigning  any  specific  reason.  "  Diana  is 
coming  to-morrow,"  she  reflected.  "  It  must 
be  settled  between  us  before  she  comes." 

She  was  in  the  garden  that  evening  in  her 
usual  seat,  when  she  saw  her  husband  coming 
towards  her  across  the  grass.  Her  hands 
grew  suddenly  cold,  and  a  nervous  trembling 
seized  her.  More  than  anything  she  dreaded 
the  possibility  of  a  scene  with  Robert ;  exhor- 
tations, counsels  of  perfection,  all  the  dialectical 
machinery  he  would  bring  to  bear  to  prove  the 
unreasonableness  of  her  attitude  —  to  put  her 
in  the  wrong. 

"  And  the  mere  fact  that  it 's  come  to  be 
a  matter  of  reason  means  that,  from  my  point 
of  view,  there  's  nothing  further  to  be  said." 
So  she  mentally  opposed  the  forthcoming 


The  Day's  Journey  65 

argument  while  she  watched  his  approach. 
He  came  slowly,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  eyes  absent-mindedly  fixed  upon  the  grass. 
A  half  smile  was  on  his  lips.  Bitterness  rose 
and  swelled  like  a  flood  in  his  wife's  heart. 
Her  trembling  ceased.  How  transparent  he 
was  !  He  was  like  a  child.  For  a  moment 
contempt,  a  woman's  contempt  for  unsuc- 
cessful concealment,  was  her  predominant 
emotion. 

"How  much  better  I  could  do  it!"  was 
her  mocking  comment. 

He  sank  into  a  basket-chair  near  the  tea- 
table,  and  absently  took  the  cup  she  offered 
him. 

"  Have  you  had  a  tiring  day  ? "  Cecily 
asked,  picking  up  some  needlework. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply.  Evidently 
the  sense  of  her  question  had  not  yet  reached 
his  preoccupied  brain. 

"  Tiring  ? "  he  repeated  at  last,  with  a 
start.  "  Oh,  yes.  But  I  've  nearly  come  to 
the  end  of  it,  thank  goodness.  I  sha'n't  go 
up  after  to-morrow." 

"  I  've  taken  Mrs.  Taylor's  rooms  for 
Philippa  Burton,"  pursued  Cecily  after  a 
moment,  working  steadily. 

"  Oh  !  Let  me  see,  when  does  she  come  ?  " 
5 


66  The  Day's  Journey 

She  could  have  smiled  at  the  quick  turn  of  his 
head,  and  the  carelessness  of  his  voice.  "  De- 
cent rooms  ?  "  he  went  on,  dropping  lumps  of 
sugar  into  his  tea. 

"  Very  nice,  I  think.  That  sugar  will  begin 
to  show  at  the  top  if  you  don't  stop."  Robert 
flushed,  and  dropped  the  sugar-tongs  with  a 
clatter. 

"  I  've  heard  from  Diana.  She  's  coming 
to-morrow." 

Robert  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  frowning, 
and  felt  for  his  cigarette-case.  "  I  can't  think 
why  you  asked  Diana,"  he  observed,  irritably, 
"with  Mayne  coming,  and — Miss  Burton. 
She  '11  expect  to  be  asked  up  to  dinner  and 
things,  I  suppose.  It  '11  make  a  lot  of  work 
for  the  servants." 

"You  are  very  considerate  —  for  the 
servants." 

He  moved  restlessly  and  glanced  at  her,  as 
he  lighted  his  cigarette. 

"  Well,  you  know  best,  of  course,"  he  began. 

"  Robert,"  said  Cecily,  suddenly,  "  there  's 
something  I  want  to  say.  And  I  want  to  say 
it  before  Diana  comes,  so  that  we  —  we  may 
understand  each  other,  and  things  may  go 
smoothly  —  as  I  want  them  to  go." 

His  start  of  apprehension  was  not  lost  upon 


The  Day's  Journey  67 

her.  It  had  the  effect  of  making  her  want 
to  scream  with  laughter,  and  she  tightened 
her  grasp  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  went 
on  quickly. 

"  We  've  been  coming  to  this  for  a  long 
time.  Let  us  speak  frankly  this  once,  and 
afterwards  let  the  matter  alone.  All  that 
you  've  been  saying  lately,  about  the  wider 
scope  and  broader  interests  necessary  for  your 
intellectual  growth  is  just  another  way  of 
explaining  that  you  're  bored  with  me." 

"Now,  my  dear  girl!"  ejaculated  Robert, 
relief  making  his  tone  almost  jocular. 

"  No,  please,  Robert,  let  me  finish.  I  'm 
not  complaining,  you  understand,  or  pleading, 
or  doing  anything  futile  of  that  sort.  I  'm 
merely  stating  the  fact  —  and  accepting  it.  I 
want  to  do  what  I  can,  to  —  to  make  things 
more  interesting  for  you.  All  this  summer 
we  shall  have  visitors.  In  the  autumn,  when 
we  go  to  town,  it  should  not  be  difficult  to 
see  very  little  of  one  another.  But  we  need  n't 
wait  for  that.  Let  us  be  free  now.  I  mean, 
let  us  give  up  pretending  to  be  lovers.  We 
shall  then,  perhaps,  be  better  friends." 

For  a  moment  before  he  began  to  speak  he 
looked  at  her  uncertainly.  Then  he  broke 
into  the  torrent  of  speech  she  had  dreaded. 


68  The  Day's  Journey 

Was  n't  it  time  to  take  a  broader  outlook  ? 
Why  did  she  resent  any  attempt  on  his  part 
to  widen  the  horizon  of  their  married  life  ? 
What  had  he  done  to  be  treated  in  this 
fashion  ?  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  if  she  wished 
this  state  of  things,  so  let  it  be.  He  could 
not  coerce  her.  He  respected  her  rights  as  an 
individual.  That  was,  in  fact,  his  whole  philos- 
ophy of  existence,  —  individual  freedom,  in- 
dividual liberty,  the  expression  of  oneself.  .  .  . 

"  I  regret  it,  of  course,  but  if  you  wish  it, 
that  is  enough.  It  is  your  doing,  remember 
—  entirely  yours.  If  you  choose  to  put  your 
own  interpretation  upon  views  of  life  which,  in 
all  sincerity,  for  our  mutual  benefit  I  have 
tried  to  make  you  share,  I  have  nothing  to 
say.  Must  a  man  necessarily  be  bored  with 
his  wife  because  he  wishes  a  wider  outlook 
for  her,  as  well  as  for  himself?"  He  paused 
indignantly  on  the  question. 

Cecily  took  up  her  embroidery.  "  Not 
necessarily,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "though  he 
generally  is.  But  need  we  say  any  more, 
Robert  ?  The  thing  is  settled,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  By  you,  remember,"  returned  Robert,  "  in 
utter  unreason,  in " 

"  Never  mind  how,  so  long  as  it  is  settled," 
murmured  Cecily. 


The  Day's  Journey  69 

He  rose,  and  walked  away,  while  mechanic- 
ally with  a  sort  of  feverish  haste,  Cecily  went 
on  working.  His  words  rang  in  her  ears,  false 
and  insincere.  His  eyes  had  spoken  truth, 
and  in  them  she  had  read  relief.  In  the 
beech  tree,  above  her  head,  a  thrush  began  to 
sing.  Cecily  listened  to  the  first  low,  passion- 
ate notes,  then  letting  her  work  fall  into  a 
heap  on  the  grass,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
hurried  blindly  towards  the  house,  and  the 
shelter  of  her  own  room.  There  she  crouched 
against  the  bed,  and  drew  the  counterpane  up 
till  it  covered  her  ears. 


CHAPTER   VII 

DIANA  came  next  day,  and  with  her, 
brought  the  atmosphere  of  gay  irrepress- 
ibleness  that  belongs  to  extreme  youth. 
Diana  was  seventeen.  She  wore  her  hair  tied, 
as  she  expressed  it,  with  a  "  cat-bow,"  and 
something  in  the  poise  of  her  head,  and  the 
shining  in  her  greenish  eyes,  recalled  an  alert, 
half-grown  kitten. 

She  was  no  beauty,  though  she  carried  her 
head  well,  and  in  her  slim  body,  straight  as  a 
reed,  there  was  the  promise  of  a  figure  that 
would  not  disgrace  the  goddess  whose  name 
she  bore.  She  laughed  a  great  deal,  she 
chattered  more ;  she  was  utterly  irreverent, 
and  Cecily  was  glad  to  have  her  in  the  silent 
house. 

"How  is  Archie?"  she  inquired  in  a  pause 
of  the  conversation  carried  on  during  the 
process  of  Diana's  unpacking.  "  Do  you  hear 
from  him  now?  Where  is  he?  " 


The  Day's  Journey  71 

"In  Florida.  Oh,  yes,  often;  he's  a  faith- 
ful hound,  you  know.  Prides  himself  on  it. 
How  do  you  like  this  blouse  ? "  She  shook 
it  out  before  her  sister.  "  I  look  perfectly 
vile  in  it.  But  then,  I  'm  such  a  hideous 
monkey.  Have  you  noticed  that  I  'm  exactly 
like  a  monkey,  Cis  ?  Look  at  my  monkey 
eyes ! "  She  sat  on  the  floor  and  gave  a 
startling  imitation  of  the  animal  in  question. 

"  Yes,  but  Archie  ? "  questioned  Cecily 
again,  when  she  had  recovered  her  gravity. 
"  Does  n't  he  consider  himself  engaged  to 
you  ? " 

"  He  may,"  returned  Diana,  calmly.  "  I 
don't.  Where  are  my  silk  stockings  ?  I 
don't  like  faithful  hounds.  And  I  don't  like 
matrimony  —  for  women,  you  know.  It's  all 
right  for  men.  Fancy  having  to  *  manage ' 
them,  and  to  pretend  to  think  such  an  awful 
lot  of  them.  It 's  degrading!  I  want  to  show 
you  my  sunshade.  Is  n  't  it  a  sweet  color  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  observed  Cecily,  "  is  that  where 
you  are  ?  Is  it  the  higher  education  of  man 
you  demand  ? " 

"  No  !  "  returned  Diana,  airily.  "  I  don't 
care  twopence  about  their  education,  or 
whether  they  ever  get  any.  I  just  don't 
consider  them  at  all." 


72  The  Day's  Journey 

"  What  a  counsel  of  perfection  !  "  exclaimed 
Cecily.  "  Go  on,  Diana.  I  'm  interested. 
You  're  a  philosopher.  What  is  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Diana, 
absently  wreathing  a  nightdress  round  her 
neck,  while  she  tilted  a  hat  over  her  eyes  at 
an  absurd  angle  before  the  glass.  "  There 's 
such  a  lot  of  things  to  do.  You  can  play- 
games, and  read  books,  and  go  about  and 
see  jolly  things  abroad,  and  watch  people,  and 
see  how  funny  they  are.  They  are  just  madly 
funny,  are  n't  they  ?  There  was  a  woman  in 
the  train  who  sat  and  looked  like  this  at  her 
husband  because  he  'd  tipped  a  porter  too 
much."  Her  face  twisted  into  a  ludicrous 
expression  of  contemptuous  indignation,  and 
resumed  its  normal  contours  in  the  space  of 
a  lightning  flash.  "  Oh  !  and  Uncle  Henry 
gets  funnier  every  day ;  like  an  infuriated 
blue-bottle.  f  'Pon  my  soul,  you  women ! 
What  you  'd  do  without  a  sensible  man  in  the 
house  !  Pom/ pom!  pom!  ' —  you  know."  She 
took  two  or  three  steps  before  the  glass, 
strutting  with  puffed-out  cheeks,  and  Uncle 
Henry  rose  before  Cecily's  mental  vision. 
"  Well,  there  are  always  people,  so  it 's  easy 
to  be  amused.  Only  you  must  never  care 


The  Day's  Journey  73 

too  much  about  any  one,  because  if  you  do, 
you  can't  be  amused  at  anything  any  more, 
and  that's  silly." 

The  laughter  died  out  of  Cecily's  eyes. 
"  Where  did  you  get  that,  Diana  ? "  she 
asked.  "  It  is  n't  bad." 

But  Diana's  versatile  mind  was  off  on  a 
fresh  tack.  "  I  'm  glad  Dick  's  coming,"  she 
said.  "  He  seems  jolly,  and  Robert 's  such  a 
grumpus.  Why  do  you  let  him  grump,  Cis  ? 
Just  fancy,  I  was  only  twelve  when  Dick 
went  away.  What  ages  we  've  known  him, 
have  n't  we  ?  How  did  we  get  to  know  him 
first  ?  I  forget." 

"  Frank  brought  him  to  Carmarthen  Ter- 
race, you  know.  He  was  an  Oxford  friend  of 
his.  Yes,  it  was  ages  ago.  I  was  only  a  little 
older  than  you  when  he  first  came." 

"  Was  he  in  love  with  you  ? "  asked  Diana, 
calmly.  She  had  divested  herself  of  the  hat 
and  nightdress  by  this  time,  and  was  begin- 
ning to  brush  her  hair. 

"  Little  girls  should  n't  ask  impertinent 
questions,"  returned  Cecily,  looking  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Oh,  then  he  was  !  "  pursued  Diana,  quite 
unruffled.  "  How  exciting  for  you !  Of 
course  you  '11  put  on  your  best  frock  this 


74  The  Day's  Journey 

evening,  won't  you  ?  People  always  do  when 
their  lovers  come  back  after  many  years." 

"  And  what  about  Robert  ?  "  inquired  Cecily, 
with  a  curious  smile. 

"Well,  what's  the  good  of  putting  on  a 
pretty  frock  for  him  ? "  Diana  retorted. 
"He's  grown  exactly  like  a  very  old  grand- 
papa." She  put  on  an  imaginary  pair  of 
spectacles,  and  peered  about  in  a  short-sighted 
way.  "  t  Frocks,  my  dear,  what  nonsense  ! 
I  'm  past  all  that  sort  of  thing.'  ' 

Cecily  winced  a  little ;  then  she  laughed. 
"  Robert  will  box  your  ears  one  of  these 
days." 

"  I  wish  he  would.  It  would  be  a  sign  of 
life.  What  a  pity  it  is,"  she  went  on,  tying 
the  "  cat-bow "  reflectively,  "  that  we  can't 
have  five  or  six  husbands,  is  n't  it,  Cis  ?  Oh, 
I  don't  mean  all  at  once,  but  one  after  the 
other,  as  the  old  ones  get  bored." 

"  Do  you  scatter  these  views  broadcast, 
may  I  ask  ? "  Cecily  observed,  looking  up 
from  her  chair  near  the  dressing-table. 

"  They're  not  views  exactly,"  returned  Diana, 
airily.  "  They  're  facts.  The  old  ones  do 
get  bored,  don't  they?  I've  noticed  that  no 
husband  goes  on  being  a  turtle-dove  very  long. 
Gets  tired  of  the  same  dove,  I  suppose." 


The  Day's  Journey  75 

"  Our  marriage  laws  make  no  provision 
for  a  change  of  doves,  you  see." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Diana,  cheerfully. 
"  Men  made  them,  so  they  're  sure  to  be 
silly.  I  wish  you  'd  think  of  another  way  of 
doing  my  hair,  Cis.  I  look  like  ( Cheerful 
Caroline,  or  Good  Temper  Rewarded,'  with 
this  imbecile  bow.  Are  n't  you  awfully  dull 
all  day,  Cis,  with  Robert  away  at  that  stupid 
old  British  Museum  ?  "  The  question,  which 
followed  hard  on  her  foregoing  remarks,  was 
called  forth  involuntarily  as  she  glanced  at  her 
sister. 

"  He  's  not  going  any  more.  He 's  finished 
all  the  research  part  for  his  novel,  and  now  he  's 
going  to  work  at  home." 

"  Perhaps  it 's  researching  that 's  made  him 
so  deadly  dull  lately,"  observed  Diana,  with 
her  habitual  candor. 

"On  the  contrary,  it  has  been  very  in- 
teresting work,"  Cecily  returned,  with  an 
unmoved  expression. 

"  Who 's  the  girl  who 's  coming  to  stay  in 
the  village  ?  "  Diana  went  on,  as  she  fastened 
her  simple  white  china  silk  blouse.  "  What 's 
her  name?  Philippa?  Edward  III,  thirteen 
something  or  other,  married  Philippa  of  some 
place ;  she  sounds  like  a  history-book." 


76  The  Day's  Journey 

"  She  is  rather  like  a  history-book,  now 
you  mention  it,"  returned  Cecily,  half  smiling. 
"  Contemporary  history.  I  used  to  go  to 
school  with  her.  Robert  met  her  the  other 
day  in  town." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  she  's  like  a  history-book  she  '11 
get  on  with  Robert.  And  then  you  and  I 
and  Dick  can  play  together  and  have  a  good 
time.  Do  put  on  a  nice  frock,  Cis,  and  make 
yourself  look  pretty.  Your  frocks  are  n't 
half  so  nice  as  they  used  to  be,  and  I  think 
you  ought  to  go  away  to  the  seaside  or  some- 
where. It  does  one  such  a  lot  of  good.  / 
looked  awful  till  I  went  to  Folkestone  this 
year.  And  now  see  how  brown  I  am ! " 

Cecily  rose.  Taking  Diana's  head  between 
her  hands,  she  kissed  her  babyish  forehead 
with  a  laugh. 

"  I  must  go  and  change,"  she  said.  "  They  '11 
be  here  in  a  minute.  They  were  to  meet  at 
Waterloo  and  come  down  together." 

Before  the  glass  in  her  own  room  Cecily 
paused.  "  Make  yourself  look  pretty,"  Diana 
had  said.  She  smiled  a  little  bitterly  at  what 
the  remark  implied,  and  then  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders  turned  to  her  wardrobe.  A 
gown  she  had  worn  at  a  recent  wedding,  and 
since  put  away,  lay  folded  in  its  box  on  one 


The  Day's  Journey  77 

of  the  shelves.  She  took  it  out  and  laid  it 
on  the  bed.  Dick  had  always  liked  her  frocks. 
"  He  won't  think  much  of  me  in  them  nowa- 
days," she  reflected,  with  another  glance  at  the 
mirror.  Nevertheless  she  dressed  carefully, 
and  thanks  to  that  very  present  help  in  the 
concerns  of  women,  Mayne's  first  thought,  as 
he  met  her  in  the  hall,  was  that  Lady  Wilmot 
had  not  increased  in  good-nature. 

"  Why,  Dick,"  she  laughed,  unconsciously 
echoing  the  lady  who  had  occurred  to  his 
mind,  "  you  Ve  grown  !  " 

She  gave  him  her  hand  warmly.  It  was 
surprising  how  glad  she  felt  to  see  Dick  again, 
and  quite  surprising  how  the  glance  he  be- 
stowed upon  her  increased  her  pleasure  in  the 
meeting.  The  old  admiration  was  in  his  eyes, 
and  on  a  sudden  some  of  her  old  self,  the  self 
she  had  thought  long  dead,  stirred  faintly.  It 
was  the  first  tribute  of  the  sort  she  had  received 
of  late,  and  she  was  amazed  to  find  it  sweet. 
Dinner,  thanks  to  Diana,  was  not  lacking  in 
sprightliness,  and,  as  far  as  Cecily  was  con- 
cerned, in  incident.  As  well  as  resentment  for 
her  sister  in  a  situation  which  she  recognized 
as  unhappy,  and  for  which  she  not  unnatu- 
rally attributed  the  blame  to  her  brother- 
in-law,  Diana  cherished  against  him  a  personal 


78  The  Day's  Journey 

grievance.  In  old  childish  days  she  had  been 
a  great  favorite  with  Robert,  who  had  teased 
and  petted  her  in  brotherly  fashion.  Now  his 
"  grumpiness,"  growing,  as  Diana  sharpened 
the  arrows  of  her  tongue,  had  extended  to 
her,  and  her  revenge  was  a  perpetual  system 
of  teasing  which  was  not  without  malice. 

"  Been  a  busy  little  lad  to-day,  Robert,  I 
trust  ? "  she  began,  as  they  sat  down  to  table. 
"  I  'm  told  that  the  British  Museum  is  a 
splendid  schoolroom  for  little  boys.  I  must 
say  /  always  found  it  stuffy." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  Ve  ever  been  near  it," 
he  returned,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness. 

"  How  do  we  know  you  have,  either  ?  "  she 
retorted.  "  All  very  well,  is  n't  it,  Cis,  to  go 
up  to  town  every  day,  with  his  good  little 
earnest  face,  and  his  little  school-books  tucked 
under  his  arm  ?  c  Good-bye,  dear  wife  !  Only 
the  desire  to  improve  myself  forces  me  to 
leave  you,' "  she  mimicked,  giving  a  rapid  imi- 
tation of  Robert's  manner,  so  apt,  in  spite  of 
the  ludicrous  words,  that  Mayne  choked  over 
his  soup.  "  I  believe  the  moment  he  gets  up 
to  town,  he  takes  his  marbles  out  of  his 
pockets,  and  his  little  toys  and  things,  and 
begins  to  play  !  "  She  leaned  towards  him  like 
a  kind  and  tender  parent.  "  Come,  tell  mother 


The  Day's  Journey  79 

all  about  it,"  she  coaxed,  "  and  then  she  won't 
be  angry  with  her  little  boy." 

Mayne  and  Cecily  both  laughed.  Of  the 
two  Cecily  seemed  the  more  amused. 

"Oh,  stop  fooling,  there's  a  good  girl," 
exclaimed  Robert,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
forehead.  "  Any  one  would  think  you  were 
seven  instead  of  seventeen.  And  I  Ve  got  a 
headache." 

"  Nothing  but  naughty  temper  because 
mother  found  you  out !  "  declared  Diana,  irre- 
pressibly. 

"  You  've  brought  her  up  very  badly,"  said 
Mayne,  turning  to  Cecily. 

"  I  gave  her  up  long  ago,"  laughed  Cecily. 
She  began  to  talk  amusingly,  quite  in  her  old 
fashion.  A  fantastic  sense  of  the  ludicrousness 
of  life,  of  all  situations  that  seem  tragic,  excited 
her  to  trembling  laughter.  Her  sense  of  humor 
had  been  roused,  bitterly  roused,  but  it  animated 
her  as  nothing  else  could  have  done,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening  Cecily  was  her  most  bril- 
liant self.  That  Robert  was  not  listening  to  her 
remarks  was  a  circumstance  which,  at  an  early 
stage  of  the  evening,  Mayne  noticed  with  some 
incomprehension  and  more  resentment.  As  his 
visit  lengthened,  the  incomprehension  vanished. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A  WEEK  later  Kingslake  was  sitting  in 
his  study,  before  a  table  littered  with 
papers,  doing  nothing.  It  was  nearly  twelve 
o'clock.  At  half-past  one  Philippa  Burton 
was  coming  to  lunch. 

He  had  not  seen  her  now  for  eight  days,  a 
period  which,  he  impatiently  admitted  to  him- 
self, had  seemed  more  like  eight  weeks,  and 
the  morning  had  appeared  interminable. 

She  was  to  have  gone  to  the  rooms  his  wife 
had  taken  for  her  in  the  village,  the  day  after 
Mayne's  arrival,  but  she  had  written  to  Cecily 
that  a  piece  of  work  —  a  commission  —  must 
keep  her  longer  in  town. 

He  thought  of  her  incessantly  —  and  con- 
fusedly. She  was  the  most  wonderful  woman 
he  had  ever  met ;  the  cleverest,  the  most  elu- 
sive, the  purest-minded.  That  was  so  touch- 
ing, so  adorable  in  Philippa,  yet  at  unguarded 
moments  he  wondered  if  it  could  be  cured. 
Philippa  as  a  friend,  an  inspirer,  a  twin  soul ! 


The  Day's  Journey  81 

How  exquisite  she  had  been  —  would  be. 
But  Philippa  as  a  mistress  ?  The  thought 
would  obtrude.  He  took  it  from  its  depths, 
and  caressed  it  at  furtive  moments,  thinking 
with  rapture  of  her  eyes,  her  mysterious  hair 

—  then  thrust  it  hastily  back,  piling  lilies  of 
thought  above  its  hiding-place.     It  would  have 
surprised   him    to    know    he   was   thinking   at 
second  hand,  but  Robert  seldom  dug  to  the 
depths.     It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he 
never  saw  the  roots  of  his  own  motives  and 
actions,  —  it  was  merely  their  interlacing  leaves 
and  flowers  to  which  he  directed  his  attention. 

A  voice  outside  in  the  garden  broke  in 
upon  his  musing  —  his  wife's  voice,  followed 
by  a  man's  laugh.  He  got  up,  and  glanced 
under  the  sun-blind  which  shielded  the  window. 
Cecily  was  picking  the  flowers  for  the  lunch- 
table,  and  Mayne,  seated  on  a  bench  before  a 
rustic  table,  was  tying  flies  for  fishing.  For  a 
moment  Robert  experienced  a  curious,  uneasy 
sensation.  It  was  almost  like  shame,  and  he 
dismissed  it  with  a  decided  recognition  of  its 
idiocy.  Mayne  had  settled  down  very  well. 
It  was  a  splendid  thing  for  Cecily  to  have 
some  one  fresh  to  talk  to.  It  was  pitiful  to 
think  how  selfish  most  men  were  to  their  wives 

—  how  jealous.  ...   It  was  only  ten  minutes 

6 


82  The  Day's  Journey 

past  twelve.  The  morning  seemed  endless, 
and  he  was  unable  to  do  a  stroke  of  work.  It 
was  dreadful  to  have  days  like  that.  Some- 
where in  the  distance  he  heard  Diana  calling. 

"  Coming,"  answered  Cecily  in  response, 
and  presently  he  saw  her  moving  towards  the 
house. 

Mayne  continued  to  occupy  himself  with 
his  fishing-tackle,  as,  during  his  restless  pacing 
to  and  fro  in  his  study,  Kingslake  could  see. 
Presently  he  opened  the  French  window  and 
stepped  out  onto  the  grass.  Mayne  looked 
up  from  his  work.  The  bench  on  which  he 
was  sitting  was  flanked  by  a  wall  of  yew,  which 
made  part  of  a  formal  enclosure  framed  on 
three  sides  by  yew  hedges,  and  open,  on  the 
fourth,  to  the  rest  of  the  garden  only  by  a 
narrow  archway  cut  out  of  the  living  green. 
It  was  a  charming,  sheltered  little  spot,  where 
Cecily's  white  lilies  flourished ;  a  sort  of  dedi- 
cation, she  said,  to  the  larger  garden  outside. 

"  Holloa  !  "  observed  Mayne,  as  Kingslake 
came  nearer.  "  Knocked  off  for  the  day  ?  Is 
the  muse  coy  ?  " 

"Yes,"  returned  Robert,  rather  irritably. 
"  I  'm  not  getting  on.  Change  of  place,  I 
suppose.  Anything  like  that  affects  me." 
He  took  out  his  cigarette-case. 


The  Day's  Journey  83 

"  Delicate  machinery  you  writing  people 
must  have.  Something 's  always  going  wrong 
with  the  works,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Oh,  more  or  less,"  Robert  returned,  pass- 
ing his  hand  through  his  hair  with  a  gesture 
habitual  to  him. 

"  You  've  been  working  in  town  lately, 
have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  getting  up  stuff  for  this  book. 
But  that 's  finished.  Now  there 's  only  the 
writing." 

"  Good  Lord ! "  ejaculated  Mayne,  with  a 
groan.  "  Only  the  writing !  The  mere 
thought  of  it  makes  me  gasp." 

Robert  smiled.  "/  can't  tie  flies,"  he  said, 
jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Mayne's 
litter  of  silk  and  tinsel. 

"  No,  but  you  land  your  fish  with  the  best 
of  us.  ...  That  last  book  of  yours  caught 
on,  didn't  it?" 

"  Oh,  it  brought  me  in  something,  I  'm  glad 
to  say." 

Mayne  leaned  back  against  the  yew  hedge, 
stretching  out  his  long  legs  contentedly.  He 
tilted  up  his  face  towards  the  serene  blue  sky, 
then  glanced  round  him,  his  look  taking  in  the 
flowers,  the  dancing  butterflies  above  them, 
the  delicate  shadows  on  the  grass. 


84  The  Day's  Journey 

"  What  do  you  want  money  for  in  Arcadia?" 
he  asked. 

"  To  get  out  of  it,"  returned  Robert,  with 
a  sort  of  impatient  bitterness. 

Mayne  glanced  sharply  at  him  as  he  half 
turned  away  to  light  the  cigarette  he  held. 

"  You  are  really  going  to  town  in  the 
autumn  ?  But  I  thought  you  were  so  keen  on 
this  ?  "  He  waved  his  hand  comprehensively. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Kings- 
lake,  irritably.  "  It 's  all  right,  but  one  can't 
live  on  lilies  and  roses,  you  know."  He  broke 
off  abruptly.  "  Listen  !  Was  that  the  bell  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  returned  Dick,  com- 
posedly. "  Why  ?  Expecting  any  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  no  !  "  There  was  quite  an 
elaborate  unconcern  in  his  tone.  "  That  is,  a 
friend  of  Cecily's  —  a  Miss  Burton  —  is  coming 
to  lunch,  I  believe." 

Mayne  had  resumed  his  work.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  second  his  deft  fingers  stopped  in 
their  movement.  Robert  was  walking  back- 
wards and  forwards  across  the  little  strip  of 
turf  in  front  of  the  seat.  When  he  spoke 
again,  it  was  abruptly. 

"  You  don't  think  Cecily 's  looking  well,  do 
you  ? " 

"  Not  at  all  well,"  returned  Mayne,  quietly. 


The  Day's  Journey  85 

"  No  —  no,"  said  her  husband,  the  second 
negation  indicating  that  he  was  giving  the 
matter  his  full  attention.  "  I  don't  think  she 
is.  She  took  the  baby's  death  to  heart."  He 
threw  a  quick  glance  at  his  companion.  "  She 
—  she  wants  rousing.  I  think  you  '11  do 
her  a  lot  of  good,  Mayne.  I  'm  glad  you  're 
able  to  stay  a  little  while ;  it 's  what  she  wants 
—  an  interest  for  her.  An  old  friend,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  must  come  and  look 
us  up  when  we're  in  town." 

"  Thanks,"  returned  Mayne,  laconically. 
There  was  a  pause.  Robert  took  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"  Does  n't  get  any  cooler,  does  it  ?  "  he 
remarked. 

"  I  'm  glad  on  your  wife's  account  that 
you  're  going  to  live  in  town,"  Mayne  said 
presently. 

Robert  looked,  as  he  felt,  genuinely  sur- 
prised. "  For  Cecily  ?  Why  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  she 's  rather  thrown  away 
here  ? "  The  quietness  of  his  tone  irritated 
Robert.  He  reminded  himself  that  he  had 
never  really  liked  Mayne.  He  was  rather  an 
unfriendly  brute. 

"  Thrown  away  ?  "  he  repeated ;  "  oh,  I 
don't  know.  Why  ?  A  woman  has  her 


86  The  Day's  Journey 

house  —  and  the  neighbors  ;  and  she  's  very 
fond  of  the  garden,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  That  sort  of  thing  used  not  to  be  very 
much  in  her  line." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  !  "  exclaimed  Kingslake, 
impatiently,  as  he  balanced  himself  on  the 
arm  of  the  bench.  "  All  girls  —  especially  the 
rather  spoilt  sort  of  girl  that  Cecily  was  — 
get  ideas  into  their  heads.  But,  my  dear 
fellow,  a  woman  nearly  always  settles  down 
after  she  's  married." 

"  Some  of  your  most  striking  novels  are 
founded  on  a  contrary  opinion,"  observed 
Mayne,  with  a  laugh.  "You  see  you  are  read 
—  even  in  the  wilds." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Robert,  dryly.  He 
moved  again,  and  began  his  restless  pacing. 
"  Cecily,  I  suppose,  has  been  complaining  — 
telling  you  that  it  was  my  wish  to  come  into 
the  country,  and  so  forth?"  he  broke  out  at 
last  with  some  resentment. 

Mayne  lifted  his  head.  "  She  has  never 
mentioned  the  subject  to  me,"  he  answered, 
shortly.  "  I  was  only  thinking  of  her  as  I 
knew  her,  five  or  six  years  ago.  She  was 
considered  —  well  —  rather  brilliant,  in  those 
days.  Does  she  write  now  ?  "  The  question 
was  put  suddenly. 


The  Day's  Journey  87 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  Kingslake  answered, 
absently.  Mayne  glanced  at  him  with  a  curi- 
ous expression.  He  wondered  whether  he 
was  aware  of  the  illuminating  quality  of  his 
indifferent  reply.  Did  he  know  what  a  mile- 
stone he  had  pointed  out  in  the  matrimonial 
road  ? 

"  Women  don't  really  care  a  snap  of  the 
fingers  about  art,"  Robert  went  on,  with  con- 
fidential fluency.  "  Matrimony  is  the  goal  of 
their  ambition  ;  that  once  attained,  they  sit 
ever  afterwards  serenely  on  the  shore,  watching 
the  struggles  of  the  rest  of  their  sex  towards 
the  same  haven." 

A  magazine  was  lying  on  the  bench  —  one 
of  the  Quarterlies.  Mayne  fluttered  the  leaves 
with  a  smile. 

"  Mrs.  Kingslake  left  this  here,"  he  said. 
"  I  envy  you  your  power  of  detachment  when 
you  write  articles,  Kingslake.  A  Vindication  of 
Woman  s  Claim  in  Art>  by  Fergus  Macdonald. 
That 's  your  writing  name,  is  n't  it  ?  I  seem 
to  be  turning  your  own  weapons  against  you 
with  horrid  frequency.  I  'm  sorry,"  he  laughed 
again. 

"  You  misunderstand  me! "  protested  Robert. 
"  Did  n't  I  say  *  the  women  who  marry '  ?  I 
meant  to.  What  I  said  does  n't  apply  to  the 


88  The  Day's  Journey 

women  nowadays  who  don't  marry  —  have 
no  wish  to  marry.  That  such  women  may  be 
artists,  actual  or  potential,  I  have  no  doubt. 
When  a  woman  is  not  preoccupied  with  the 
affairs  of  sex " 

"  She  's  generally  wanting  to  be." 

Kingslake  stopped  short  in  his  harangue, 
and  looked  at  the  other  man  doubtfully. 
"  You  take  a  cynical  view,"  he  said. 

"  No.     Merely  a  natural  one." 

"  You  don't  believe  that  some  women 
deliberately  put  love  out  of  their  lives  ?  "  asked 
Robert,  tentatively. 

"  My  dear  chap,  love  never  gives  some 
women  a  chance  to  be  so  rude." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  the  sort  of 
woman  who  has  a  chance." 

"  She  'd  take  it." 

Kingslake  regarded  him  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression for  a  moment ;  there  was  a  look  of 
dawning  hope  in  his  face,  a  half  smile  of  pleased 
expectancy.  Then  it  faded,  and  he  resumed 
his  former  slightly  sententious  manner.  "  My 
dear  Mayne,"  he  replied,  "  you  've  been  out 
in  the  wilds  for  some  years.  You  can't  be 
expected  to  know  the  spirit  of  the  times.  You 
don't  understand  the  modern  woman." 

"  My    dear    Kingslake,"    returned    Mayne, 


The  Day's  Journey  89 

with  great  deliberation,  "  if  I  'd  been  out  in 
the  wilds,  as  you  say,  for  fifty  instead  of  five 
years,  I  should  still  disbelieve  in  her  existence. 
There 's  no  such  thing  as  a  modern  woman. 
She 's  exactly  as  old  as  Eve.  She  does  n't 
shake  her  curls  nowadays,  nor  have  hysterics. 
She  writes  for  the  Daily  Mai!,  and  plays 
hockey.  But  do  you  seriously  think  these 
trifling  differences  affect  the  eternal  feminine  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it." 

Robert  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  say,  I  've 
stopped,  surely.  It  must  be  more  than  half- 
past  twelve.  What  do  you  make  it  ? " 

Dick  slowly  drew  out  his  watch.  "  Five- 
and-twenty  past."  Kingslake  threw  away  his 
half-smoked  cigarette,  and  began  to  light 
another  one.  Mayne  watched  him. 

"  Do  you  know  this  lady  who  is  coming  to 
lunch  ?  "  he  asked,  carelessly. 

The  match  burnt  Kingslake's  fingers  as 
he  raised  his  head,  and  he  uttered  a  hasty 
observation. 

"  I  met  her  the  other  day  in  town,"  he 
added,  as  a  pendant. 

"  Is  she  a  modern  woman  ?  "  asked  Mayne. 
The  casualness  of  his  tone  reassured  Robert. 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  emphatically.  "  At 
least  I  should  imagine  so.  She 's  an  artist. 


90  The  Day's  Journey 

Has  a  studio  of  her  own,  and  so  forth. 
She 's  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  poor  girl.  .  .  ." 
He  looked  meditatively  at  the  glowing  end 
of  his  cigarette.  "  There 's  a  woman  now," 
he  broke  out,  "who  has  an  absolute,  a  per- 
fectly disinterested  love  of  art  for  its  own 
sake.  She 's  a  case  in  point." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  so  ? " 

"Yes,"  returned  Robert,  unguardedly, 
warming  to  his  subject.  "  She  does  n't  think 
of  love ;  she  does  n't  want  it.  She  looks 
upon  it  as  unnecessary  —  a  hindrance  —  a 
barrier  to  her  intellectual  life." 

"  Rather  a  communicative  young  lady, 
eh  ?  "  was  Mayne's  comment. 

Robert  flushed.  "  Oh,  in  the  course  of 
conversation  .  .  ."  he  began,  hurriedly.  He 
was  cut  short  by  Diana,  who  emerged  from 
the  porch  with  a  tray  of  cut  flowers. 

"  I  'm  going  to  do  them  out  here,"  she 
began.  "  It 's  too  boiling  for  anything  in  the 
house.  Robert ! "  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  him, 
"why  are  you  idling  here?  Out  for  five 
minutes'  play,  I  suppose.  That 's  right.  Get 
back  to  your  work  like  a  good  little  fellow, 
and  see  what  an  industrious  boy  you  can  be. 
It 's  not  nearly  lunch-time  yet." 

Robert  smiled  indulgently.     "  Quite  right. 


The  Day's  Journey  91 

I  'm  frightfully  slack  to-day  somehow,"  he 
said,  as  he  turned  towards  the  study.  "  This 
beastly  heat,  I  suppose." 

Diana  gave  a  mischievous  chuckle  as  he 
disappeared. 

"  I  do  love  to  watch  the  celebrity  at  home," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  choked  with  laughter. 
"  Robert 's  not  done  a  stroke  of  work  this 
morning.  He 's  been  looking  out  of  the 
window  with  a  yearning  gaze,  like  this." 
She  made  one  of  her  inimitable  faces. 

Mayne  grinned.  "As  a  sister-in-law, 
Diana,  you  are  a  treasure." 

"There's  the  bell!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 
"  That  means  the  History-Book,  I  expect. 
I  wonder  whether  Cecily 's  ready.  I  hope 
she  's  putting  on  her  blue  muslin.  I  told  her 
to.  Come  along !  We  must  go  and  see  her, 
I  suppose." 

Within,  Cecily  was  going  forward  to  meet 
her  guest. 

The  women  exchanged  a  swift  glance  of 
mutual  interest,  while  Philippa  impulsively 
put  out  both  hands.  Cecily  took  one  of 
them,  and  ignored  the  inclination  of  Philippa's 
face  towards  hers. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  I  hope  you  are  not 
very  tired  ?  "  she  began. 


92  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Cecily  !  "  cried  Philippa,  rapturously. 
"  After  all  these  years  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  they  had  to  pass,  did  they  not  ?  " 
returned  her  hostess  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"  I  'm  so  sorry  you  've  been  ill.  But  you  are 
better,  surely  ?  If  you  hate  looking  ill  as 
much  as  I  do,  I  'm  sure  you  '11  like  to  be  told 
that  it  doesn't  show." 

Philippa  smiled,  a  little  sadly.  "  Oh,  it 's 
nothing.  I  'm  not  very  robust,  that's  all," 
she  returned,  patiently.  "Is  this  Diana  — 
the  baby  Diana  I  used  to  hear  about  when 
we  were  schoolgirls  ?  " 

Diana,  who  had  entered  the  hall  with 
Mayne,  shook  hands  with  the  brusqueness 
which  characterizes  the  young  girl  when  she 
is  at  the  same  time  shy  and  aggressive. 
"  Affected  fool,"  was  her  brief  mental  verdict, 
as  she  glared  at  Philippa's  artless,  unfashion- 
able hat  and  brown  sandals. 

"Mr.  Mayne — Miss  Burton,"  murmured 
Cecily. 

"  We  have  met  before  —  at  Lady  Wilmot's, 
have  n't  we  ?  "  smiled  Philippa,  as  they  shook 
hands. 

The  door  opened  at  the  moment  to  admit 
Robert. 

"  Ah,   I    thought    I     heard    voices ! "    he 


The  Day's  Journey  93 

exclaimed,  genially.  "  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Burton  ? " 

Diana  giggled  as  she  retired  with  Mayne 
to  the  window-seat. 

"  Robert 's  up  and  down  like  a  dog  in  a 
fair,"  she  whispered,  irreverently.  "  He  '11 
get  on  splendidly  with  the  History-Book. 
What  an  idiot  she  looks  in  that  Twopenny 
Tube  dress,  doesn't  she?  .  .  .  and  then  you 
and  I  and  Cis  can  play  about  and  amuse  our- 
selves, and  have  a  lovely  time.  What  are 
you  staring  at,  Dick  ?  Don't.  She  '11  think 
you  're  admiring  her  ;  and  she's  just  as  con- 
ceited as  a  peacock  already." 


CHAPTER   IX 

"TTTHAT  a  sweet  garden  you  have!" 
V  T  exclaimed  Philippa,  putting  down  her 
coffee-cup.  They  had  returned  to  the  yew  en- 
closure after  lunch.  She  had  thrown  aside 
her  hat  with  one  of  the  free  sweeping  move- 
ments which  Lady  Wilmot  characterized  a& 
Whitmanesque,  and  the  breeze  stirred  the 
ripples  of  her  thick,  dark  hair. 

"This  is  only  a  tiny  piece  of  it.  Would 
you  like  to  see  the  rest  ?  "  asked  Cecily.  "  I 
could  take  you  round  before  I  go  to  see  my 
dog.  He's  ill,  and  I  must  make  sure  that 
they  're  looking  after  him  properly  in  the 
village.  Will  you  come  with  me,  or  would 
you  rather  stay  here  and  rest?" 

"  May  I  stay  here  ? "  begged  Philippa. 
"  You  see  I  'm  silly  enough  not  to  be  very 
strong,  and  the  walk  here  has  tired  me  a 
little." 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Cecily,  rising,  "  if 
you  don't  mind  being  left  for  half  an  hour, 


The  Day's  Journey  95 

perhaps.  He 's  in  one  of  the  cottages  in  the 
village,  near  the  vet,  and  I  'm  afraid  it  will 
take  me  all  that  time  to  get  there  and  back. 
Robert  will  look  after  you.  Will  you  come, 
Dick  ?  "  she  added,  turning  to  Mayne.  "  I  'd 
like  you  to  see  how  he  is." 

He  had  already  risen.  "  Of  course.  I 
meant  to  go,"  he  returned. 

"  Diana  is  cycling  over  to  Silverleafe  for 
me,  if  you  want  any  letters  taken  to  the  post, 
Robert,"  she  turned  to  say,  as  she  passed 
through  the  archway  in  the  yew  hedge. 

Mayne  followed  her.  She  did  not  speak 
as  they  crossed  the  lawn.  Her  crisp  blue 
dress  rustled  softly  over  the  grass.  Glancing 
down  at  her,  he  noticed  her  thin  cheeks,  the 
compression  of  her  lips.  She  looked  ill  — 
almost  old.  A  tumult  of  thoughts  and 
emotions  filled  his  mind,  as  he  walked  beside 
this  woman  from  whom  he  had  parted  five 
years  ago,  feeling  that  with  her  he  had  lost 
all  that  made  life  worth  living ;  its  savour,  its 
keenness,  its  delight.  Five  years  had  shown 
him  that  in  a  man's  life,  at  least,  risks,  excite- 
ments, hard  work,  and  some  hard  fighting  can 
so  soften  a  woman's  image  as  to  make  it  no 
longer  a  thing  of  torture.  On  his  first  return 
to  England,  two  years  after  his  departure,  he 


96  The  Day's  Journey- 

had  not  seen  Cecily.  He  could  not  trust 
himself  to  meet  her  calmly,  and  he  would  not 
meet  her  otherwise.  Ten  days  ago,  after  a 
further  absence  of  three  years,  he  had  accepted, 
with  unfeigned  pleasure,  her  husband's  cordial 
invitation.  Though  he  could  think  of  her  now 
with  equanimity  as  another  man's  wife,  noth- 
ing could  alter  his  affection  for  Cecily,  and  he 
had  looked  forward  to  seeing  her,  undismayed 
by  the  prospect  of  witnessing  domestic  bliss. 

To-day,  as  he  walked  in  silence  at  her  side, 
old  emotions  stirred.  He  was  glad  of  the 
safety-valve  of  anger.  That  Kingslake  had 
met  more  than  once  the  woman  they  had 
just  left  with  him,  he  had  been  pretty  well 
assured,  even  before  he  saw  them  together. 

"  Emotional  fool,"  indicated  his  summing- 
up  of  Robert's  attitude  in  her  presence.  Did 
Cecily  guess  ?  Had  she  left  them  together 
in  bitter  acquiescence  ?  He  glanced  down  at 
her  again,  but  her  quiet  face  baffled  him.  One 
other  question  insistently  pursued  him.  Had 
Kingslake's  invitation  to  him  been  premedi- 
tated? Was  it  possible  that A  dark 

flush  rose  to  his  face.  Then,  suddenly,  as 
though  recollecting  herself,  Cecily  began  to 
talk.  She  talked  recklessly,  gayly,  about  any- 
thing, about  nothing.  He  did  not  listen ;  he 


The  Day's  Journey  97 

was  thinking  of  her  as  she  had  appeared  ever 
since  he  came  to  the  house  —  desperately 
anxious  to  save  appearances  —  never  once 
naturally,  quietly  happy  as  he  had  imagined 
her,  as  he  had  come  to  be  glad  to  think  he 
would  find  her. 

They  went  into  the  cottage  and  looked  at 
the  dog.  All  the  time  he  was  feeling  the 
chest  and  the  limbs  of  the  sick  spaniel,  Mayne 
was  determining  to  break  down  the  barrier  of 
convention  which  she  had  put  up  between 
them.  He  would  at  least  talk  to  her.  She 
looked  like  a  woman  drowning.  He  would 
not  allow  her  to  drown  without  a  word. 
"  Better ;  he 's  much  better,  poor  little  chap," 
he  said,  getting  up  from  his  knees. 

Cecily  fondled  and  patted  the  silken  head, 
which  was  eagerly  stretched  out  of  the  basket 
on  her  approach.  The  sound  of  her  caress- 
ing voice  shook  Mayne's  composure.  He 
remembered  the  baby  she  had  lost,  and  with 
the  memory  came  a  flood  of  wild  thoughts 
and  wilder  regrets.  He  moved  abruptly  to 
the  door,  where,  on  escaping  from  the  garru- 
lous old  woman  who  owned  the  cottage,  Cecily 
presently  joined  him. 

She  relapsed  into  silence  again  on  the  home- 
ward way,  and  it  was  Mayne  who  broke  it. 

7 


98  The  Day's  Journey 

"  Let 's  sit  down  here  a  minute,  it 's  so 
jolly ! "  he  suggested,  as  they  came  to  an  easy 
stile.  "  We  need  n't .  gallop  back  for  Miss 
Burton's  sake.  She 's  a  host  in  herself." 

Cecily  laughed  shortly.  "  Don't  you  admire 
her  ?  She 's  very  handsome." 

Mayne  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  threw 
himself  down  on  the  grass  close  to  the  low 
step  on  which  she  was  seated.  Cecily  smiled. 
She  felt  childishly  comforted  by  the  con- 
temptuous action. 

The  long  meadow-grass  was  starred  with 
daisies,  and  jewelled  with  tall  spikes  of  rose- 
red  sorrel.  The  field  sloped  to  a  full,  slow 
stream,  which  lazily  stirred  tufts  of  forget-me- 
nots  in  its  passing.  On  the  farther  bank,  the 
cattle  swished  indolent  tails  as  they  crowded 
under  the  shade  of  the  willows,  or  stood  knee- 
deep  in  the  water. 

"  What  a  peaceful  place ! "  said  Mayne, 
suddenly.  "  It  makes  a  funny  sort  of  con- 
trast to  one  or  two  scenes  I  remember.  May 
I  smoke  ?  It 's  pretty,"  he  went  on,  beginning 
to  fill  his  pipe,  "  but  somehow,  as  a  setting,  it 
does  n't  suit  you." 

Cecily  started  a  little.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  remark,  but  she  knew  that  Mayne 
meant  to  talk,  in  the  sense  of  the  word,  and 


The  Day's  Journey  99 

she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  glad  or 
sorry.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  tribute  to  his  person- 
ality that  the  idea  of  preventing  him  did  not 
even  occur  to  her.  One  did  not  try  to  stop 
Mayne  when  he  expressed  the  intention  of 
doing  anything. 

"That  doesn't  sound  like  a  compliment," 
she  returned,  smiling.  "  Why  does  n't  a 
pretty  place  suit  me  ? " 

"  No  room  for  your  wings." 

"  My  dear  Dick,  you  're  not  going  to  tell 
me  I  'm  an  angel ! "  she  exclaimed,  still  cling- 
ing to  the  fringe  of  conventional  repartee. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  replied,  lighting  the 
pipe,  "  the  wings  are  not  angelic." 

"  That 's  right.  Where  would  they  carry 
me  —  if  they  had  room  to  move?" 

"  Out  into  the  wild  places  at  the  back  of 
beyond  —  sometimes." 

Cecily  dropped  her  light  tone.  "  That 's 
true,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  And  at  others  ?  " 

"  No  farther  than  town.  You  'd  fold  them, 
for  a  time  at  least,  quite  complacently  in  a 
London  drawing-room,  provided  the  other 
birds  were  of  the  right  flock." 

"That's  also  true  —  or  was  true."  The 
amendment  was  dreary. 

"  Sometimes   when  /  was   at   the    back   of 


ioo         The  Day's  Journey 

beyond,"  continued  Mayne,  smoking  stolidly, 
"  I  used  to  picture  you  as  a  celebrity,  holding 
a  salon  —  like  those  French  women,  you  know. 
The  charming  ones  —  not  the  blue  stockings. 
Madame  Recamier — Madame  de  Sevigne  — 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Instead  of  which  I  ride  down  to  the  village 
on  my  bicycle,  and  order  the  groceries.  It 's 
Robert  who 's  the  celebrity,  you  know."  She 
stooped  to  pick  a  long-stalked  buttercup  as 
she  spoke.  Her  voice  was  not  bitter,  it  was 
quite  colorless. 

"  There  was  generally  room  for  two  in  the 
salons,  was  n't  there  ?  "  asked  Mayne. 

"Possibly.  There  isn't  on  the  hearthrug." 
There  was  rather  a  long  pause.  Mayne  took 
out  his  pipe,  and  knocked  its  bowl  against  the 
stile. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  ought  to  have 
made  room,"  he  said  at  last,  decisively.  Cecily 
turned  her  face  slowly  towards  him. 

"  You  are  right,  Dick,"  she  said.  "  I 
ought." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  why  didn't  I?  Why  didn't  I?" 
shef  repeated,  a  little  wildly.  Her  voice  shook, 
and  she  threw  the  buttercup  aside  with  a  nerv- 
ous movement.  "Why  is  one  always  a  fool 


The  Day's  Journey          101 

till  it 's  too  late  to  be  wise  ?  Life 's  such 
a  difficult  thing  to  manage." 

"  I  agree." 

"  Especially  with  love  thrown  in  as  a 
handicap." 

He  glanced  at  her  swiftly.  "  Is  it  a 
handicap  ?  " 

"  For  a  woman  —  yes."  She  was  bitter 
enough  now. 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  the  whole  thing  means  so  much 
more  to  her  than  it  does  to  a  man." 

"  Not  in  every  case." 

She  glanced  at  him  hurriedly,  and  her  voice 
softened.  "  Generally,"  she  said,  "  it  means 
so  much  to  a  woman  that,  like  a  fool,  she 
throws  overboard  all  that  reason,  common- 
sense,  judgment,  urge  her  to  keep.  And  the 
ship  sails  splendidly  at  first "  She  paused. 

"  And  after  a  time  ?  "  suggested  Mayne. 

"  Oh,  it  still  sails  splendidly ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, with  a  laugh.  "  But  it  sails  on 
without  her.  She's  left  struggling  in  the  sea 
—  or  stranded  on  the  first  desert  island." 

"  And,"  said  Mayne  in  a  business-like  tone, 
"with  proper  management  you  think  there 
need  never  have  been  an  island  ?  " 

"  Not  a  desert  island." 


102          The  Day's  Journey 

"  But  the  desert  island    can   be  cultivated, 

C*   » 
is. 

"  Yes — now,"  said  Cecily,  drearily.  "  There's 
no  barrier  now  —  except  my  lack  of  heart  to 
do  it." 

Mayne  was  glad  of  the  personal  pronoun. 
They  were  coming  to  close  quarters. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  barrier  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  unexpected  sudden- 
ness. "  Robert  did  n't  like  it." 

Mayne  slowly  raised  his  head,  and  their 
eyes  met.  He  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  'd  like  to  say  ! " 
cried  Cecily,  hurriedly  ;  "  but  it 's  no  use  argu- 
ing about  it.  Most  men  regard  their  wives, 
so  long  as  they  're  in  love  with  them,  in  an 
absolutely  primitive  way  —  there  's  no  getting 
out  of  it  —  they  do.  For  every  other  woman, 
freedom,  individuality,  the  c  exercise  of  her  own 
gifts,'  of  course.  For  a  man's  wife,  while  he 
loves  her,  rtt>  life  but  his.  She  belongs  to 
him,  body  and  soul.  He  is  jealous  of  every 
interest  in  which  he  is  not  concerned.  And 
because  his  love  means  so  much  to  her,  because 
she  cant  realize  that  one  day  it  may  go,  a 
woman  yields ;  she  lets  all  her  interests  go 
down  the  wind ;  she  is  what  he  wants  her 
to  be." 


The  Day's  Journey         103 

She  paused  a  moment  in  her  rapid  speech. 
Mayne  made  no  sign,  and  she  went  on  in  a 
voice  that  shook  a  little. 

"  And  perhaps,  if  it  lasted  so,  she  would  be 
content.  But  it  doesn't  last.  And  it's  the 
woman  who 's  shipwrecked.  Beautiful  new 
countries,  full  of  interest,  for  him.  For  her 
—  nothing  but  the  desert  island." 

Mayne  was  still  silent.  He  was  following, 
with  a  stalk  of  grass,  the  distracted  movements 
of  a  ladybird. 

Cecily  laughed  nervously.  "  My  dear  Dick," 
she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  What  a  dose  of  the  woman  question 
I  Ve  given  you  !  It 's  the  first  offence,  kind 
gentleman.  It  shall  not  occur  again.  Come 
along." 

Mayne  had  also  risen,  but  he  made  no 
sign  of  moving.  "  Cecily,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
"  we  're  very  good  friends,  are  n't  we  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  "Very  good 
friends,  Dick." 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something." 

«  Yes  ? " 

"  Take  up  your  work  again.  Go  on  writ- 
ing." 

She  hesitated.  "  Does  it  matter  ? "  she 
asked,  with  a  dreary  smile. 


104         The  Day's  Journey 

"  That  does  n't  matter.  I  want  a  definite 
promise." 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  Very  well,  I  '11 
try,"  she  answered  at  last,  steadily. 

He  nodded  satisfaction.  "  That 's  good 
enough  for  me.  I  'm  not  afraid/'  he  returned, 
and  moved  from  the  stile. 

They  began  to  wade  through  the  sea  of 
grasses  towards  the  garden,  whose  belt  of  trees 
lay  at  no  great  distance. 

"  Look  here,  Cis  ! "  he  began,  so  suddenly 
that  she  started,  and,  glancing  up,  saw  him 
squaring  his  shoulders  in  the  resolute  way  for 
which  as  a  girl  she  had  often  teased  him. 
"  There 's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you. 
All  of  us  —  all  of  us,  at  least,  who  matter  —  get 
a  hard  knock  from  life  some  time  or  other,  and 
if  it 's  hard  enough  most  of  us  go  to  pieces  for 
a  bit.  /  went  to  pieces  once." 

Cecily  nervously  pulled  the  rosy  beads  off  a 
head  of  sorrel  as  she  passed  it,  but  he  went 
straighten.  "You  have  been  going  to  pieces 
for  quite  a  considerable  time.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know,"  as  he  saw  her  shrink  a  little.  "  But 
this  is  a  straight  talk.  Now  what's  the  good 
of  going  to  pieces,  Cis  ?  It  does  n't  alter 
anything  except  oneself,  and  one's  chance  of 
getting  something^  if  not  the  thing  we  want, 


The  Day's  Journey          105 

out  of  existence.  Life  gives  hard  blows. 
Very  well,  then,  let  us  go  out  to  meet  it,  in 
armor.  I  want  you  to  get  a  suit,  Cis."  He 
paused  abruptly. 

"  The  people  who  wear  armor  are  not,  as  a 
rule,  engaging,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
smile. 

"It  depends  on  the  kind  they  wear." 

"  It's  the  getting  it  on,  Dick." 

"Yes,"  he  allowed,  "  it's  a  bit  stiff  at  first; 
but  with  perseverance " 

"  It 's  a  dull  thing  to  fight  in,"  she  urged, 
after  a  moment  apparently  given  to  consider- 
ation. 

"  There  are  all  sorts  of  suits,  you  know," 
he  went  on  in  a  lighter  tone.  "  A  large 
assortment  always  in  stock.  There 's  a  neat 
little  thing  called  hard  work,  which  is  not  to 
be  despised,  to  begin  with.  Then  there 's  a 
highly  decorated  one  known  in  the  trade  as 
ambition  —  and  so  forth." 

Cecily  laughed.  "  I  '11  try  some  of  them  on. 
Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  look  as  well  in 
them  as  you  do  ? "  she  added  in  a  gentle  voice. 

"  Better.  There  are  joints  in  mine." 
There  was  a  touch  of  grimness  in  his  tone 
which  appealed  to  her. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  Ve  come  home,  Dick,"  she 


io6          The  Day's  Journey 

said,  gratefully.  "  You  're  a  nice,  strong 
person." 

"In  spite  of  the  joints?"  he  asked,  with  a 
suspicion  of  irony. 

"  Because  of  them,"  she  answered,  gravely. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  half  banteringly,  half  in  earnest. 

"  You  're  going  to  be  the  most  brilliant 
woman  in  London,  Cis ;  do  you  know  that  ? 
In  your  scintillating  salon}  statesmen  shall 
bow  the  knee,  journalists  shall  grovel.  It 
shall  be  chock-full  of  fair  ladies  loving  you 
like  poison " 

"  But  I  shall  only  admit  one  distinguished 
traveller,"  said  Cecily,  gayly. 

His  face  changed.  "Really?"  he  asked, 
softly,  "  that  will  be  kind."  All  that  he  had 
been  studiously  keeping  out  of  his  voice,  out 
of  jiis  face,  came  suddenly  to  both. 

Cecily  hesitated.  "And  he  will  be  in 
armor,"  she  said.  It  was  almost  an  appeal. 
She  had  been  so  glad  to  find  a  friend !  His 
words  had  braced  her  like  strong  wine.  But 
if  she  must  think  of  him  as  a  would-be  lover, 
if  she  could  not  think  of  him  as  a  friend  ? 
The  pitiful  look  which,  in  her  unguarded 
moments,  had  often  unnerved  Mayne,  came 
back,  and  now  it  strengthened  him. 


The  Day's  Journey          107 

"All  right,  Cis,"  he  said.  "Don't  you 
bother.  It 's  a  tight-fitting  suit." 

She  smiled  at  him  gratefully,  as  he  held 
open  for  her  the  little  gate  leading  from  the 
fields  into  the  lower  garden. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  moment  had  come  for  which  Robert, 
on  that  day  at  least,  had  scarcely  dared 
to  hope.  He  was  alone  with  Philippa !  He 
changed  his  seat  for  one  nearer  to  her,  and 
looked  at  her  ardently.  Philippa  returned 
his  gaze  with  a  smile  of  wistful  tenderness. 
Renunciation,  a  burning  sense  of  duty, 
tempered  by  potential  passion,  was  expressed 
partly  by  the  smile,  partly  by  the  direct  gaze 
of  her  melancholy  eyes. 

Robert  acknowledged  the  former  emotion 
with  respectful  admiration,  and  derived  un- 
acknowledged hope  from  the  latter.  Three 
months  ago  he  had  met  Philippa  Burton  in 
the  reading-room  of  the  British  Museum, 
and  had  made  her  acquaintance  with  a 
degree  of  unconventionality  hereafter  so 
frequently  alluded  to  by  Philippa  as  "  our 
beautiful  meeting,"  that  he  had  come  to 
attribute  to  it  something  of  mystic  import  — 
an  indication  of  soul  affinity. 


The  Day's  Journey          109 

Regarded  prosaically,  the  acquaintance  had 
come  about,  much  as  very  delightful  and 
profitable  acquaintances  are  made  in  a  class 
of  a  considerably  lower  social  grade  than 
that  to  which  either  of  them  belonged. 
Robert  had  noticed  and  admired  the  dark- 
eyed,  mysterious-looking  girl  who  read  at 
the  table  opposite  to  his  own,  had  seized 
the  chance  of  helping  her  with  some  heavy 
books  which  she  was  lifting  from  the  refer- 
ence shelves,  and  the  further  opportunity  of 
leaving  the  reading-room  with  her  at  the 
moment  she  had  chosen  for  lunch.  With 
that  deliberate  ignoring  of  foolish  convention, 
of  which  sandals  and  freely  exposed  necks 
are  the  outward  and  visible  sign,  she  had 
expressed  her  thanks  with  an  impressiveness 
impossible  to  the  silence  of  the  reading- 
room,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Robert 
found  himself  lunching  with  her  at  a 
vegetarian  restaurant,  suffering  French  beans 
gladly.  He  had  met  her  at  a  critical  moment, 
the  moment  when  the  last  sparks  of  passion 
for  his  wife  had  died  a  natural  death,  and  he 
had  begun  to  crave  for  "  a  new  interest  in 
life."  It  was,  so  he  expressed  to  himself, 
the  prompting  of  a  very  ordinary  instinct. 
Philippa  had  accepted  the  paraphrase  with 


no         The  Day's  Journey 

melancholy  fervor,  and  had  set  about  minister- 
ing to  the  requirements  it  indicated,  after  the 
manner  of  a  priestess. 

She  had  promptly  admitted  Robert  to  her 
temple,  —  an  austerely  furnished  studio  in  Ful- 
ham,  —  had  given  him  tea  out  of  cups  with  no 
handles,  and  made  the  ceremony  seem  like  a 
sacrificial  rite.  She  had  listened  to  the  reading 
of  his  manuscripts,  and  called  them  blessed ; 
she  had  discussed  his  wife,  and  called  her  a  nice 
little  thing ;  she  had  dealt  in  abstractions  such 
as  honor,  ennobling  influences,  the  transmuta- 
tion of  passion  into  a  religious  flame  to  illu- 
mine and  make  life  holy ;  and  she  had  hitherto 
resisted  with  grieved  patience  all  Robert's  man- 
like relapses  into  a  somewhat  less  rarefied 
atmosphere.  Robert  was  naturally  very  much 
in  love. 

"  I  thought  to-day  would  never  come ! " 
he  murmured.  "  Are  you  better  ?  You  Ve 
been  working  far  too  hard.  Ah,  you  should  n't. 
Another  cushion  ? " 

Philippa  accepted  the  cushion,  but  motioned 
Robert  back  to  his  place  with  gentle  persistence. 

"  Not  work  ?  "  she  said.  "  But  I  must. 
How  else  should  I  live  ?  Though  certainly 
sometimes  I  wonder  why.  It's  then  that  I 
hear  the  river  flowing.  How  quiet  it  would 


The  Day's  Journey         in 

be,  would  n't  it  ?  What  a  sweet  washing  away 
of  life's  troubles  and  wearinesses  —  and  mis- 
takes'!" She  fixed  her  swimming  eyes  upon 
a  leafy  branch  opposite,  and  spoke  in  an 
infinitely  sad,  deep  voice. 

"  Don't,  Philippa ! "  urged  Robert,  in  dis- 
tress. "  I  can't  bear  it.  You  know  how 
I  want  to  shield  you.  You  are  not  strong 
enough  to  battle  with  life.  You  know  how 
I  long  to " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  don't ! "  she  cried, 
smiling  at  him  with  trembling  lips.  "  We  Ve 
discussed  that  —  and  you  know  I  can't  allow 
it.  Don't  make  me  regret  having  taken  this 
beautiful  holiday  at  your  hands.  I  never 
thought  you  could  persuade  me  even  to  that, 
but  you  are  wonderful  when  you  plead, 
Fergus." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  She 
gently  withdrew  it. 

"It  sounds  so  strange  to  hear  you  called 
'Robert,' "  she  said.  "You  are  always  'Fergus' 
to  me.  It 's  a  beautiful  name,  associated  with 
beautiful  work."  Her  eyes  dilated,  and  Robert 
wondered  whether  she  was  thinking  of  the 
scene  between  the  lovers  in  The  Magician,  or 
of  the  moonlit  terrace  scene  upon  which  he 
prided  himself  in  The  Starry  Host,  his  last 


n2         The  Day's  Journey 

poetical  drama,  —  or  perhaps  of  one  of  his  little 
prose  poems  ?  Her  expression  called  up  agree- 
able reminiscences  of  nearly  all  his  writing. 

"  I  've  been  watching  for  you  all  the 
morning,"  he  told  her. 

"  But  that  was  very  bad  for  your  work." 
She  shook  her  head  at  him  playfully. 

"  My  work  is  always  at  a  standstill  without 
you."  ' 

She  looked  at  him  affectionately.  "  Do  you 
know,  I  can't  help  being  glad  of  that !  It  does 
show,  I  think,  that  your  work  is  a  bond  be- 
tween us  in  the  highest  and  best  sense." 

He  assented  absently.  "  Cecily  read  me 
your  letter,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause. 

She  waited  for  him  to  comment  upon  it. 
"  Was  it  right  ?  "  she  asked  at  length,  when 
he  was  silent.  "  I  kept  strictly  to  the  truth. 
I  hate  anything  that 's  not  absolutely  sincere." 

" Yes,"  he  replied,  dubiously.  "It  was 
the  truth,  of  course,  but  it  gave  her  a  wrong 
impression.  She  thinks  we  only  met  at  Lady 
Wilmot's." 

"  Is  n't  that  what  you  intended  ?  "  There 
was  a  momentary  ring  of  sharpness  in  her 
voice. 

w  Yes,"  he  returned, uncertainly  again.  "  Yes, 
I  suppose  so."  His  face  clouded  for  an 


The  Day's  Journey          113 

instant.  When  he  again  sought  her  eyes,  she 
was  smiling  indulgently. 

"  Fergus,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  under- 
stand ?  If  women  were  all  fine  and  noble 
enough  there  would  be  no  occasion  to  with- 
hold anything.  We  could  be  quite  frank 
about  our  friendships,  knowing  that  they  would 

not  be  misconstrued.  But  as  it  is "  She 

paused. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"As  it  is,  while  so  many  women  are  still 
mentally  undeveloped,  morally  childish,  truth 
must  come  as  —  well,  as  a  progressive  revela- 
tion." 

Robert  laughed  a  little.  "  I  'm  afraid  it 
will  always  be  a  revelation,"  he  said,  a  latent 
sense  of  humor  for  a  moment  asserting  itself, 
"  progressive  or  otherwise." 

Philippa  did  not  encourage  humor.  "  I 
have  greater  faith,"  she  returned,  with  serious 
eyes.  "  There  are  some  great  souls  among 
women,  Fergus,  after  all." 

He  was  scarcely  listening.  Surely  no 
woman  ever  had  such  wonderful  hair  as 
Philippa's.  His  hands  ached  to  touch  it,  to 
feel  it  running  through  his  fingers.  He  got 
up  abruptly,  and  began  to  pace  the  grass  plot 
as  he  had  paced  it  that  morning  when  he  had 


ii4         The  Day's  Journey 

been  thinking  of  her.  Now  she  was  before 
him  with  her  big,  velvety  eyes,  her  marvellous 
hair,  her  long  slender  limbs.  He  realized 
presently  that  she  was  still  speaking. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  fatally  easy,"  she  was  say- 
ing meditatively,  "  for  a  married  woman  who 
has  led  a  sheltered  life  to  grow  a  little  petty 
and  narrow.  After  all,  it  is  the  worker,  the 
struggler,  who  purifies  her  nature.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  But  in  time,  I  think,  even  the 
married  woman  may  learn." 

"  Learn  what  ?  "  he  murmured,  absently, 
throwing  himself  once  more  into  the  cane  chair 
beside  her. 

"  To  love  less  selfishly,"  she  returned,  look- 
ing down  at  him ;  "  to  admit  the  value  of 
every  ennobling  friendship  —  a  friendship  such 
as  ours,  Fergus !  What  can  it  mean  but 
good  ?  Good  for  both  of  us.  Good  for  her, 
too,  if  only  she  would  take  it  so,"  she  added, 
softly. 

Robert  made  a  restless  movement.  The 
spell  of  her  presence  was  somehow  broken. 
He  felt  worried,  exasperated,  angry  with  him- 
self—  almost  angry  with  Philippa.  She  ex- 
pected too  much  of  human  nature.  Certainly 
too  much  of  his. 

"  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you   can't  get  a 


The  Day's  Journey         115 

woman  to  take  it  like  that ! "  he  exclaimed, 
in  spite  of  himself.  "  Consider  our  case  if 
you  like,"  he  added,  in  an  injured  tone. 
"  What  woman  would  believe  in  mere  friend- 
ship, if  she  knew  we  had  met — how  often? 
Nearly  every  day,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  for  the 
last  three  months.  It  is  n't  in  human  nature  !  " 
He  spoke  almost  irritably,  prompted  by  an 
undefined  notion  that,  having  put  such  a  strain 
upon  any  woman's  credulity,  it  was  ridiculous 
not  to  have  justified  her  disbelief.  For  a 
moment  he  wished  Philippa  had  been  a  less 
noble  woman. 

She  sighed.  "  Then  I  suppose  you  were 
quite  right  not  to  tell  her,"  she  said,  descend- 
ing abruptly  upon  the  personal  pronoun. 
"  Your  idea  is  to  let  her  grow  used  to  our 
friendship,  here  in  the  country,  under  her 
eyes,  so  that  she  may  gradually  come  to 
believe  in  its  purity  ?  " 

Robert  felt  a  little  nonplussed.  He  had 
thought  this  particular  idea  emanated  from 
Philippa  herself,  but  as  she  spoke  of  it  de- 
cidedly as  his,  she  must  have  no  doubt  that  he 
had  suggested  it.  In  any  case,  it  was  scarcely 
chivalrous  to  undeceive  her. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  murmured, 
after  a  moment.  Presently,  as  Robert  watched 


n6         The  Day's  Journey 

her,  she  smiled,  slowly,  indulgently,  as  a 
mother  smiles  at  the  waywardness  of  a  little 
child.  "  How  charming  Cecily  is  !  "  she  said. 
"  She  always  appealed  to  me,  even  as  a  school- 
girl. I  always  wanted  to  protect  her  in  some 
way.  She  was  so  fragile  —  so  sweet.  She  had 
very  little  character,  —  as  a  child,  I  mean,  — 
but  then  she  was  so  graceful,  so  lovable,  one 
scarcely  missed  it." 

Robert  was  silent.  He  felt  vaguely  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity !  What  a  pity  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  softly,  after  a  pause.  There  was 
the  tenderest  commiseration  and  regret  in  her 
emotional  voice.  Robert  felt  his  heart  stirred 
painfully.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her  dress,  but 
refrained. 

"  What  is  a  pity  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  That  she  does  n't  understand  you,  Fer- 
gus!" 

"  She  thinks  she  does." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  —  that  is  the  tragedy." 

"  Oh,  we  all  have  them ! "  said  Robert, 
lightly. 

She  leaned  a  little  towards  him.  "  At  least 
I  do  that,  Fergus  ?  Understand  you  ?  "  Her 
voice,  still  low,  was  tremulous. 

He   seized    her   hands.     "As    no  one    has 


The  Day's  Journey          117 

ever  understood  me  !  "  he  cried.  "  Philippa  ! 
No  !  Don't  move.  Don't !  I  must  tell  you 
_I  can't " 

She  struggled  to  loose  her  hands,  and  he 
released  them.  When  she  was  free  she  moved 
a  little  away  from  him,  to  the  other  end  of  the 
bench,  and  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

Robert  was  abashed.  He  had  angered 
her  —  he  did  not  know  how  deeply  !  He 
hesitated. 

"  Philippa,"  he  whispered  at  last,  "  you  are 
angry  ?  " 

"  Not  angry,"  she  returned  almost  at  once, 
"  but  disappointed,  Fergus.  More  than  once 
you  have  promised  not  to  let  that  kind  of 
thing  happen  again." 

"I  know,"  he  began,  humbly,  "but " 

"  What  were  we  talking  about  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  studiously  quiet  tone. 

"I  don't  know,"  admitted  Robert,  with 
truth.  His  head  was  in  a  whirl. 

"  About  you,  I  expect,"  she  returned,  with 
no  trace  of  sarcasm.  "  Yours  is  a  very  finely 
strung  temperament.  It  requires  the  sym- 
pathy that  comes  of  insight.  Now  if  Cecily 

would  only "  She  paused,  as  though 

hesitating  to  criticise. 


n8         The  Day's  Journey 

"  Cecily  surprised  me  a  good  deal  the  other 
day,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "  I  meant  to  tell 
you." 

"  Oh  ? "  Her  voice  grew  slightly  cold. 
"  How  ?  I  should  n't  have  thought  her  a 
woman  of  many  surprises." 

Robert  broke  off  a  twig  from  an  over- 
hanging hazel,  snapped  it,  and  threw  it  away 
before  he  spoke. 

"  She  accused  me  of  being  tired  of  her. 
Said  she  had  no  wish  to  stand  in  my  way. 
No,"  in  answer  to  her  sudden  inquiring 
look,  "  she  brought  no  accusation ;  she  has 
heard  nothing  of  our  —  our  friendship.  It 
was  just  a  whim,  I  suppose.  But  —  I  've 
taken  her  at  her  word." 

Her  eyes  held  his.     "  You  mean  ? " 

"  She  wished  that  we  should  be  friends," 
he  returned,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
"  We  shall  be  —  friends,  henceforth." 

Before  he  could  analyze  the  expression 
which  leaped  to  her  eyes,  she  had  averted 
her  head. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  whispered,  softly. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Is  Mr.  Mayne  an  old  friend  of  hers  ?  " 

Robert  started.  "Yes,"  he  returned, 
reluctantly.  "  She  has  known  him  since  she 


The  Day's  Journey          119 

was  a  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen.  I  asked 
him  here,"  he  added,  with  an  effort. 

Philippa  turned  an  illumined  face  towards 
him.  "As  a  lesson  in  generosity?  I  see." 
She  regarded  him  as  the  angel  who  holds 
the  palm-branch  might  regard  the  soldier- 
saint  who  had  earned  it.  "  That  was  splendid 
of  you,  Fergus  !  " 

Involuntarily  he  put  out  a  hand  as  though 
to  avert  her  words. 

"  I  thought  it  was  only  fair  she  should 
have  some  one  to  talk  to,"  he  said,  trying  to 
speak  carelessly,  and  annoyed  that  the  words 
sounded  like  a  self-justification. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  she  '11  see  it  as  you  meant  it, 
and  be  worthy  of  it ! "  cried  Philippa,  almost 
as  though  it  were  a  prayer.  "But,  Fergus, 
you  must  n't  be  surprised  if  she  does  n't,"  she 
added,  with  regret.  "  Cecily,  you  know,  is 
vain.  I  remember  that  of  her  as  a  striking 
characteristic  from  our  schooldays.  She 's  so 
charming,  so  lovable,  but  she  's  weak,  Fergus. 
.  .  .  Poor  Fergus  ! "  she  murmured,  "  I  wish 
I  had  the  right  to  comfort  you  !  "  The  breeze 
fluttered  her  mysterious  hair.  In  the  soft 
green  gloom  flung  by  the  trees,  her  eyes 
looked  like  forest  pools  for  depth.  She  sighed, 
and  the  roses  on  her  breast  rose  and  sank, 


120          The  Day's  Journey 

wafting  an  intoxicating  perfume.  Robert's 
heart  beat  so  quickly  that  he  could  scarcely 
speak.  He  flung  himself  onto  the  grass,  and 
leaned  against  her  knees. 

"  You  have !  You  must !  I  don't  want 
comfort — I  want  you!"  he  whispered,  inco- 
herently. "  Philippa,  it 's  ended  between  me 
and  Cecily  !  She  does  n't  love  me  now.  I 
don't  love  her.  I  can  only  think  of  you. 
Listen  !  Listen,  darling,  I  can't  go  on  talking 
about  friendship  any  more.  I  love  you ! " 
He  put  both  arms  round  her,  and  held  her  — 
held  her  while  at  first  she  resisted.  But  only 
for  a  moment.  She  grew  suddenly,  rigidly, 
still. 

He  threw  back  his  head,  still  holding  her, 
to  look  into  her  face.  She  was  pale,  but  she 
gazed  at  him  mysteriously,  with  a  sort  of 
religious  ardor. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Philippa  ! "  he  begged. 

"  Is  it  really,  really  so,  Fergus  ? "  she 
whispered.  "The  great  love?  the  perfect 
union  ?  " 

"You  know  I  love  you,"  he  said,  beginning 
to  realize  that  this  was  surrender,  but  that 
Philippa  must  do  it  in  her  own  way. 

"I  think  it  would  be  right  for  us,  Fergus. 
I  feel  it  would  be  right !"  she  added,  with  the 


The  Day's  Journey          121 

conviction  of  a  mystic  who  has  received  a 
sign  from  Heaven.  "Conventions,  laws  — 
they  are  for  little  people.  Great  love  is  its 
own  justification." 

The  phrase  struck  Robert  as  familiar. 
But  what  did  phrases  matter  ?  She  was 
yielding. 

"You  love  me,  then  ?  "  he  urged,  trembling. 

"Yes,  Fergus,"  she  said  in  her  low,  vibrat- 
ing voice.  "  Yes,  it  is  love  —  and  I  did  n't 
know  it.  You  have  revealed  me  to  myself." 

He  kissed  her  passionately.  "  Call  me  by 
my  own  name,"  he  said,  rising,  still  with  his 
arm  about  her,  and  drawing  her  to  her  feet. 

"  Dear  Robert ! "  she  murmured  as  he 
rained  kisses  on  her  hair.  He  was  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  narrow  archway  cut  in 
the  hedge,  and  her  face  was  hidden  against 
his  shoulder. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Cecily  and 
Mayne  reached  the  entrance  to  the  yew  gar- 
den. For  one  second  Cecily  stood  motion- 
less, then  without  a  word  she  moved  on  past 
the  narrow  archway,  and  continued  walking 
parallel  to  the  hedge  on  the  outward  side. 
Mayne  followed  her,  embarrassment  for  the 
moment  so  strong  within  him  that  there  was 
no  room  for  any  other  emotion. 


122          The  Day's  Journey 

Cecily  did  not  speak.  She  and  Robert 
had  loved  the  yew  enclosure  better  than 
any  other  part  of  the  garden.  All  the  times 
they  had  sat  there  together  came  before  her 
now.  She  saw  them  as  a  drowning  person 
is  said  to  review  the  scenes  in  his  past  life. 
She  saw  the  sunshine  on  the  grass  on  hot 
summer  'afternoons.  She  smelled  the  roses. 
She  thought  of  moonlit  nights.  She  remem- 
bered one  night,  —  soon  after  their  marriage,  — 
moonless,  but  full  of  stars,  when  she  had 
sat  with  Robert  on  the  bench  under  the 
hazels.  .  .  .  All  at  once  she  turned  to  Mayne. 

"  I  shall  find  my  armor  useful,"  she  said, 
in  a  clear,  steady  voice.  "  Thank  you  so  much 
for  recommending  it.  We  can  get  into  the 
house  at  the  other  door." 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  Kingslakes  had  been  in  town  nearly 
eight  months.  They  had  taken  a  flat  in 
Westminster,  and  Cecily  had  been  thankful 
for  the  work  entailed  by  the  move.  She 
was  thankful  to  leave  the  Priory ;  thankful 
even  to  part  from  her  beloved  garden.  The 
whole  place  seemed  to  her  desecrated,  be- 
smirched. That  for  the  heights,  as  for  the 
depths,  of  human  happiness  and  human  woe 
the  same  scene  should  be  set,  may  be  sport 
for  the  gods.  For  the  actors  in  the  drama  it 
is  agony,  and  it  was  with  relief  unspeakable 
that  Cecily  set  her  face  towards  London  and 
a  different  existence. 

It  was  only  when  the  flat  was  in  order, 
and  life  began  to  run  smoothly,  that  she 
realized  how  much  easier,  as  far  as  outward 
circumstances  were  concerned,  existence  had 
become.  It  was,  as  she  had  suggested  to 
Robert,  very  simple  to  see  little  of  one  another. 
When  her  husband  was  indoors  he  was  always 


124          The  Day's  Journey 

in  his  study.  But  Robert  was  very  little  at 
home  in  those  days. 

Cecily  asked  no  questions.  He  went  his 
way ;  she  hers.  London  seized  them  both, 
and  whirled  them,  for  the  most  part,  in  oppo- 
site directions.  When  they  met,  it  was  with 
friendliness,  tempered  on  Robert's  side  with  an 
implied,  perfunctory  reproach.  "  Remember 
this  is  your  doing.  This  state  of  things  is 
the  outcome  of  your  wish,"  was  what  his 
manner  expressed,  while  with  visible  relief 
he  accepted  his  freedom.  Cecily  sometimes 
smiled  when,  directly  after  one  of  their  in- 
frequent lunches  together,  she  heard  the  front 
door  bang,  and  listened  to  her  husband's  im- 
patient summons  for  the  lift.  The  smile  was 
still  bitter,  but,  as  time  went  on,  it  hurt  less. 

In  those  early  days  in  town,  Cecily  saw  her 
husband  very  mercilessly.  The  scales  had 
so  completely  dropped  from  her  eyes  that 
her  clearness  of  vision  startled  even  herself. 
There  were  times  when,  heightened  by  fierce 
jealousy,  her  old  passion  for  him  revived  so 
strongly  that  she  could  scarcely  restrain  herself 
from  the  madness  of  throwing  herself  into  his 
arms,  appealing  to  him,  begging  him  to  come 
back  to  her  —  to  love  her.  At  such  moments 
she  always  had  the  sensation  of  being  held  tight 


The  Day's  Journey          125 

by  some  one  who  laughed,  some  one  who  said 
coldly,  "  You  fool !  When  he 's  hurrying  to 
another  woman,  to  whom,  if  you  are  lucky, 
he  will  speak  of  you  'quite  nicely/'  And 
when  she  had  raged,  and  fought,  and  struggled 
till  she  had  exhausted  herself,  she  was  always 
thankful  for  the  iron  arms  that  had  held  her, 
and  the  icy  voice  that  had  checked  her  passion. 
It  was  after  the  subsidence  of  such  an  out- 
break of  emotion,  that  she  generally  saw  Robert 
dispassionately,  as  an  outsider  might  have  seen 
him,  or  rather  with  an  amount  of  penetration 
which  no  outsider,  however  dispassionate,  could 
have  attained.  She  acquired  an  almost  pre- 
ternatural insight,  a  sort  of  projection  of  her 
mind  into  his,  so  that  she  actually  witnessed 
his  self-deception,  saw  the  clouds  which  he 
purposely,  yet  almost  without  his  own  volition, 
raised  between  his  own  consciousness  and  naked 
truth.  She  realized,  with  something  that  was 
almost  scornful  amusement,  how  the  idea  of 
inviting  Mayne,  with  all  that  such  an  invitation 
might  imply,  had  first  struck  him.  How  he 
had  thrust  the  thought  from  him  as  a  poison- 
ous snake,  —  and  invited  Mayne.  She  saw 
how,  by  this  time,  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
acquire  merit  by  encouraging  Mayne's  visit. 
His  wife  was  unreasonable  (because  she  didn't 


i26         The  Day's  Journey 

know  anything)  —  this,  in  his  mind  also,  ap- 
peared in  parenthesis,  and  was  so  lightly 
skimmed  in  thought  that  it  scarcely  counted. 
Besides,  when  she  had  expressed  her  wish 
for  their  practical  separation,  there  had  been 
nothing,  and  that  made  all  the  difference, 
and  brought  him  on  happily  to  the  con- 
templation of  his  own  generosity  in  welcoming 
a  friend  of  hers,  at  a  time  when  she  was  not 
even  aware  that  there  was  also  a  friend  of 
his  for  whom  the  same  cordiality  might  be 
expected. 

It  was  with  a  shock  sometimes  that  she 
found  herself  making  a  minute  analysis  of  her 
husband's  mental  condition  with  a  degree  of 
calmness,  of  interest  even,  at  which  she  could 
only  wonder.  In  the  meantime,  as  far  as  out- 
ward interests  and  preoccupations  were  con- 
cerned, she  made  haste  to  fill  her  life.  In  her 
determination  to  do  this  she  had  never  wavered 
since  her  talk  with  Mayne.  The  hours  must 
be  filled.  So  far  as  occupation  went,  she 
could  and  would  "  pull  herself  together."  She 
began  to  look  up  her  old  friends,  and  found 
them  more  than  willing  to  receive  her.  Cecily 
had  always  been  popular,  and  her  husband  was 
beginning  to  be  well  known,  and  probably, 
also,  beginning  to  grow  rich.  Whether  she 


The  Day's  Journey          127 

owed  her  immediate  acceptance  to  the  memory 
of  her  own  former  charm,  or  to  the  more 
tangible  advantages  she  now  offered  as  the 
wife  of  a  popular  novelist,  Cecily  wisely  did 
not  inquire.  She  wanted  acquaintances.  She 
could  have  them  for  the  asking.  And  she  was 
grateful  for  one  friend. 

Mayne  was  living  at  his  club  while  he  con- 
sidered at  his  leisure  a  fresh  campaign  of  ex- 
ploration. He  and  Cecily  saw  one  another 
frequently.  But  it  was  not  till  she  took  his 
incessantly  urged  advice  and  began  to  write, 
that  she  felt  that  any  of  her  methods  of  filling 
the  hours  were  more  than  husks  which  she  ate 
for  lack  of  good  bread.  Often  on  looking 
back  to  the  day  when  she  first  took  up  her 
work  again,  she  thought  with  wonder  of  the 
occasion.  It  was  the  day  Robert  had  expressed 
his  desire  to  employ  the  services  of  Philippa 
Burton  as  secretary.  Rather  to  Cecily's  sur- 
prise he  had  been  in  to  lunch.  It  was  nearly 
a  month,  she  reflected,  since  such  a  thing  had 
happened,  and  her  surprise  deepened  when, 
instead  of  going  directly  the  meal  was  at  an 
end,  he  asked  for  coffee,  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
For  a  time  he  talked  disjointedly  on  indifferent 
topics,  bringing  the  conversation  round  at  last 
to  his  work  and  its  many  vexations. 


128         The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  've  got  more  than  I  can  do,"  he  declared, 
with  a  worried  frown.  "  Brough  is  bothering 
for  those  short  stories,  and  there's  my  new 
novel,  and  the  play,  and  half  my  time  's  taken 
up  with  business  letters  and  all  the  machinery 
of  the  thing."  He  paused  as  if  in  thought. 
"  I  really  think  a  secretary  would  pay  me,"  he 
exclaimed  presently. 

"  Why  not  have  one,  then  ?  "  asked  Cecily, 
taking  a  cigarette  from  the  box  between  them. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to What  about 

Miss  Burton  ? "  he  suggested,  concluding  the 
hesitating  sentence  sharply,  as  though  the 
idea  had  just  occurred  to  him.  "  She  does 
shorthand,  and  she 's  very  hard  up,  poor 
girl.  She  was  at  Lady  Wilmot's  yesterday 
when  I  called." 

Cecily  lighted  her  cigarette,  and  walked  with 
it  to  the  window-seat,  where  she  sat  down  with 
her  back  to  the  light. 

"  And  you  suggested  it  to  her  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No.  I  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her." 

A  hysterical  desire  to  laugh  seized  her. 
She  controlled  it,  grasping  with  her  left  hand 
the  corner  of  the  cushion  on  which  she  sat, 
and  was  silent. 

"  I  should  only  want  her  —  and  indeed  she 


The  Day's  Journey          129 

could  only  come  —  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
morning,"  Robert  went  on,  quite  fluently  now. 
"She  has  her  own  work  —  enamelling,  isn't 
it  ?  And  of  course  she  would  n't  want  to  give 
that  up  entirely.  But  she  can't  make  a  living 
at  it ;  and  I  thought,  as  she 's  a  friend  of 
yours,  if  I  could  do  her  a  good  turn " 

Cecily  rose.  "  By  all  means  do  her  a  good 
turn,"  she  said.  "  But  what  has  that  to  do 
with  it  ?  The  question  is,  will  she  make  a 
good  secretary  ?  If  you  think  she  will,  I 
should  engage  her.  I  must  go  and  get  ready. 
I  promised  to  meet  Mrs.  Carrington  at  three 
o'clock." 

As  she  closed  the  door  after  her,  Robert 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  honestly  re- 
flecting that  it  was  the  unreasoning  prejudice  of 
women  that  made  marriage  slavery.  Dispas- 
sionately he  reviewed  his  own  case.  Granted 
that  if  she  knew  of  his  relations  with  Philippa, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  make  his  wife  view 
them  from  any  but  the  vulgar  standpoint ; 
granted  this,  the  point  at  issue  was  that  she  did 
not  know.  From  her  point  of  view,  therefore, 
he  was  the  conventionally  faithful  husband,  and, 
this  notwithstanding,  it  was  she  who  had  an- 
nulled their  married  life.  So  far  as  her  knowl- 
edge went,  Philippa  was  a  mere  acquaintance 

9 


130          The  Day's  Journey 

of  his,  a  woman  with  whom,  during  her 
stay  at  Sheepcote,  he  had  been  moderately 
friendly ;  a  woman  to  whom,  because  she  was 
poor  and  comparatively  friendless,  he  wished 
to  extend  a  helping  hand.  Immediately,  her 
attitude,  if  not  hostile,  had  been  at  least  un- 
cordial.  He  began  to  rage  at  its  obvious  in- 
justice. Regarded  from  Cecily's  standpoint 
it  was  monstrous.  On  no  stronger  ground 
than  that  of  a  frivolous  accusation  of  lack  of 
affection  on  his  part,  to  insist  on  a  practical 
separation,  and  then  to  be  jealous  of  his 
women  friends! 

He  rose  from  the  table  with  an  exclamation 
of  impatience.  It  was  amazing  that  no  later 
than  yesterday  he  should  have  dreaded  mak- 
ing this  proposition  to  Cecily,  that  he  should 
have  shrunk  from  it  as  something  in  bad  taste, 
something  forced  upon  him  only  by  the  press- 
ing necessity  of  helping  a  proud  woman,  who 
would  be  helped  in  no  other  way.  His  scru- 
ples had  been  needless,  and  even  ridiculous. 
By  her  own  action  Cecily  had  set  him  free  to 
do  what  he  would  with  his  life.  He  took  his 
hat,  and  later  a  hansom,  and  drove  to  Fulham. 

Cecily  sat  in  her  bedroom  on  the  edge 
of  her  bed,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 


The  Day's  Journey         131 

Mechanically  she  had  taken  her  hat  and  veil 
from  the  wardrobe,  and  as  mechanically  laid 
them  aside,  forgetting  she  was  going  out.  Pres- 
ently she  wandered  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down.  Misery,  jealousy, 
loneliness,  had  shrunk  away  before  a  sort  of 
cold  anger  and  contempt ;  a  longing  to  be  free, 
to  shake  off  forever  a  yoke  that  had  become 
hateful ;  to  have  the  power  to  become  herself 
once  more.  Should  she  tell  Robert  she  knew  ? 
Should  she  demand  her  freedom,  and  go? 
Part  of  her  nature  leaped  at  the  thought  It 
would  so  simplify-  the  struggle.  She  could  go 
away,  immerse  herself  in  work,  force  herself  to 
forget.  Thus  she  would  so  easily  spare  her- 
self humiliation,  the  sight  of  the  woman  she 
hated  in  her  own  house,  at  her  husband's  side. 
"  And  why  should  I  stay  ?  Why  should  I  ?  " 
she  clamored  to  one  of  the  other  women  with- 
in her.  "  He  does  n't  love  me.  He  does  n't 
want  me.  .  .  .  Not  now."  "  But  some  day 
he  will  want  you,"  another  voice  unexpectedly 
returned.  "  What  then  ?  Am  I  to  wait 
meekly  till  he  's  tired  of  her  ?  Am  I  to  be 
at  hand  to  console  him  in  the  intervals  of 
his  love  affairs  ?  " 

She  heard  herself  break  into  a  short,  scorn- 
ful laugh,  and  almost  before  it  ceased  the  other 


132          The  Day's  Journey 

self  had  spoken.  "  Think  of  him  wanting  you 
—  and  suppose  you  were  not  there?  You 
know  how  he  would  look.  Picture  it.  Could 
you  bear  it  ?  Can  you  go  ?  "  All  at  once  the 
room  swam  before  her  in  a  mist  of  tears,  and 
she  knew  she  could  not. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  pushed  it 
wider  open.  Before  her,  springing  like  a  long- 
stemmed  flower  towards  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
was  the  campanile  of  Westminster  Cathedral. 
Behind  its  rose-pink  summit  white  clouds 
drifted,  and  round  it  circled  white  pigeons.  It 
was  a  tower  that  Cecily  had  learned  to  love,  its 
very  incongruity  in  the  midst  of  London  roofs 
appealing  to  her  imagination.  It  was  an  exotic 
flower,  blossoming  radiantly  above  the  gray 
heart  of  London.  She  looked  at  it  to-day 
with  a  fresh  sense  of  its  beauty.  It  affected 
her  like  the  glamour  of  an  Eastern  story. 
With  a  keen  sense  of  gratitude  she  realized 
that  beauty  once  more  had  power  to  thrill  her. 
She  remembered  how  at  the  Priory  last  year 
the  blue  sky  had  been  hateful,  the  sunshine 
vain.  "  I  'm  getting  better,"  she  half  whis- 
pered. "  When  it  does  n't  matter  at  all,  any 
more,  I  shall  be  well.  Perhaps  some  day  I 
shall  be  well."  The  thought  brought  a  great 
wave  of  consolation.  She  went  quickly  into 


The  Day's  Journey          133 

her  bedroom,  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves,  and 
without  waiting  for  the  lift,  walked  down-stairs. 
As  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  the 
facade  of  the  cathedral  came  into  sight.  Cecily 
let  her  eyes  wander  over  its  galleries,  its  re- 
cesses, its  stone  carvings,  its  mysterious  little 
staircases,  its  strange  domes,  and  pillared  log- 
gias. She  loved  it  all,  curious  and  fantastic  as 
it  was.  She  had  not  meant  to  go  in,  but  as 
she  passed,  she  saw  that  the  unfinished  doors 
of  the  great  entrance  were  open,  and  far  away 
in  the  recesses  of  what  looked  like  a  shadowy 
cave,  the  candles  burned  like  a  row  of  stars. 
Cecily  paused.  A  palm-branch  laid  between 
two  chairs  served  as  a  barricade  to  the  scarcely 
completed  entrance,  and  she  went  in  at  the 
side  door,  and  sat  down  just  within.  She 
knew  the  interior  of  the  cathedral  well,  but  to- 
day its  likeness  to  some  gigantic  work  of 
nature  —  a  great  branching  sea-cave  perhaps  — 
struck  her  more  forcibly  than  ever.  The  un- 
covered brickwork  in  its  ruggedness  and 
simplicity  heightened  this  effect.  It  was 
wonderful  now  with  a  mosaic  of  sunshine 
which,  filtering  through  the  small  panes  of  the 
west  windows,  covered  the  brickwork  between 
the  mighty  arches  with  a  design  in  gold.  Far 
beneath,  the  choir  itself  was  in  shadow.  In 


134          The  Day's  Journey 

shadow  also  was  the  great  red  cross,  with  the 
pallid  Christ,  suspended,  as  it  seemed,  in 
mid-air. 

A  service  was  going  on,  and  from  behind 
curtains,  at  the  back  of  the  altar,  came  the 
sound  of  singing.  The  sweet  boys'  voices 
filled  the  vaulted  spaces  above  the  altar  as 
though  clouds  of  incense  had  melted  into 
song.  An  unfinished  chapel  on  the  right, 
near  the  door,  was  almost  concealed  by  scaf- 
folding, over  which  hung  cloths  of  sacking, 
but  between  the  folds  of  this  screen  Cecily 
caught  a  glimpse  of  one  of  the  mosaic  workers 
—  a  girl,  evidently  mounted  upon  an  impro- 
vised platform,  for  Cecily  saw  only  her  dark 
head  high  up  against  an  already  completed  back- 
ground of  mosaic.  The  chapel  was  flooded 
with  dusty  golden  sunlight,  in  the  brightness 
of  which  her  young  face  looked  vague  and  in- 
distinct. Her  right  hand  moved  swiftly  as  she 
worked  at  the  halo  round  the  head  of  a  saint. 
Through  a  veil  of  golden  haze,  Cecily  had  a 
vision  of  burnished  silver  and  gold,  of  peacock 
color  and  rose,  lining  the  walls  of  the  chapel, 
and  her  thoughts  were  carried  back  to  the 
mediaeval  artisans  in  cathedrals  now  hoary  with 
age ;  to  the  workers  of  long  ago  whose  busy 
hands  are  dust.  She  thought  of  possible  years 


The  Day's  Journey          135 

to  come,  when  the  golden  halo  of  that  saint 
should  be  dim  with  age,  and,  like  the  myriads 
of  artisans  before  her,  the  girl-worker  should 
have  passed  into  oblivion. 

The  service  had  ceased,  but  Cecily  still  sat 
on,  in  a  sort  of  dream.  She  saw  in  the  distance 
a  procession  of  dim  purple-robed  figures  with 
white  cassocks  come  down  from  the  choir-loft 
and  disappear.  The  space  before  the  altar  was 
empty.  Silence  had  fallen,  but  she  did  not 
move. 

The  cathedral  had  laid  its  spell  upon  her. 
She  felt  it  like  a  quiet  hand  upon  her  heart. 
By  its  actual  religious  significance,  in  a  narrow 
sense  at  least,  she  was  not  affected.  But  in  so 
far  as  it  stood  for  something  detached  from  the 
fever  and  the  fret  of  human  existence,  it  began 
to  assume  a  great  meaning.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  longed  for  a  serenity  which 
should  lift  her  above  the  storms  of  passion ; 
for  interests  independent  of  the  love  of  man. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Cecily,  that,  desiring  a 
thing  strongly,  she  should  definitely  try  to 
gain  it. 

What  was  the  first  step  for  her,  individually, 
towards  spiritual  freedom  ?  Surely  to  create. 
It  was  the  craving  of  her  whole  nature.  She 
longed  for  freedom ;  so  only  could  she  be 


136         The  Day's  Journey 

free.  Then  and  there  she  began  to  think  out 
and  plan  in  detail  an  idea  which  long  ago  she 
had  been  too  happy,  and  lately  too  wretched, 
to  translate  into  writing.  The  mosaic  of  sun- 
shine faded  from  the  walls,  the  great  church 
grew  dim  while  she  sat,  still  thinking.  When 
at  last  she  rose,  and,  a  little  dazed,  stepped 
from  the  twilight  of  the  nave  into  the  street, 
the  sun  had  sunk  below  the  opposite  houses, 
and  the  saffron-colored  sky  told  of  evening. 
Cecily  put  back  her  head,  and  with  her  eyes 
followed  the  soaring  campanile  till  they  rested 
on  the  cross  which  at  its  summit  pierced  the 
quiet  sky. 

With  no  sense  of  incongruity,  but  with  a 
curious  feeling  of  gratitude,  she  reflected  upon 
the  nature  of  her  meditation  within  the  building 
to  which  that  tower  belonged.  A  few  moments 
later  she  reached  her  own  doorstep,  and  that 
same  evening  she  began  to  write. 


CHAPTER   XII 

"  IV  yf"  Y  dear  !  "  said  Lady  Wilmot,  as  her 
IV J.  motor-car  stopped  in  Dover  Street 
before  her  club.  "  Who  'd  have  thought  of 
seeing  you  ?  "  The  man  opened  the  door, 
and  she  descended  with  a  rustle  of  silks  to 
shake  hands  with  Rose  Summers,  who  was 
passing.  "  What  are  you  doing  away  from 
your  country  cottage?  I  thought  you  never 
left  off  holding  your  children's  hands  for  a 
minute.  Come  in  and  have  some  tea,"  she 
exclaimed  in  one  breath. 

Rose  hesitated.  tf  I  succumb  to  tea,"  she 
said,  after  a  second's  pause,  "  though  I  've 
enough  shopping  to  do  to  last  a  week." 

They  entered  the  club,  and  Lady  Wilmot 
bore  down  upon  the  tea-room  like  a  ship  in 
full  sail,  Rose  following  in  her  wake  with  an 
expression  of  anticipated  amusement.  It  was 
to  the  prospect  of  gossip  she  had  succumbed, 
rather  than  to  the  offer  of  tea,  with  the  pre- 
science that  to  one  who  had  fallen  a  little 
behind  the  times,  half  an  hour  with  Lady 


138          The  Day's  Journey 

Wilmot  would  be  a  godsend.  "  I  shall  learn 
more  than  I  could  pick  up  in  three  months, 
otherwise,"  was  her  smiling  reflection  as  she 
settled  herself  opposite  her  hostess  at  one  of 
the  tables  of  colored  marble,  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  window. 

"  We  're  early,  or  we  should  n't  get  a  table," 
pursued  Lady  Wilmot.  "  Always  a  hideous 
crush  here.  Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  the  babies 
are  better  ?  What  an  untold  nuisance  children 
must  be  !  Measles  is  part  of  them,  I  suppose  ? 
How  do  you  like  your  cottage?  And  when 
is  Jack  coming  home  ?  Tea  and  cake  and 
muffins  "  —  this  to  the  waiter,  in  parenthesis. 
"  Do  you  see  that  woman  coming  in  ?  The 
one  with  the  painted  gauze  scarf —  not  the 
only  paint  about  her,  by  the  way.  Well, 
remind  me  to  tell  you  something  in  connection 
with  her,  presently.  Quite  amusing.  And 
how  long  are  you  going  to  be  in  town,  my 
dear  ?  And  where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

Rose  selected  the  last  two  questions  to 
answer. 

"  I  'm  only  up  for  the  day,"  she  said.  "  I  'm 
afraid  to  leave  the  children  longer.  They 
develop  a  fresh  infectious  disease  the  moment 
my  eye  is  not  upon  them."  She  laughed, 
drawing  off  her  gloves.  It  was  the  laugh  of 


The  Day's  Journey          139 

a  woman  contented  with  life,  as  for  her  it  had 
resolved  itself  into  the  normal  fate  of  mother- 
hood, with  its  anxieties,  its  pleasures,  its 
anticipations. 

Seated  in  the  angle  of  the  window,  the 
light  falling  on  her  sunburnt  face,  her  erect 
figure  well  suited  by  a  successfully  cut  cloth 
gown,  she  was  not  only  pleasant  to  look  at, 
but  she  struck  a  curiously  different  note 
from  the  majority  of  the  other  women 
who  now  began  to  crowd  the  tea-room  — 
women  whose  distinctive  feature  was  their 
aimlessness. 

"  You  've  improved  a  great  deal,  my  dear  !  " 
remarked  Lady  Wilmot,  after  a  critical  stare. 
"  I  always  said  you  were  the  type  that 
improved  with  age.  You  '11  be  a  good- 
looking  woman  at  forty,  when  all  this  sort 
of  thing"  —  she  included  the  room  with  a 
sweep  of  her  hand  — "  is  done  for." 

Mrs.  Summers  laughed  again.  "  How  en- 
couraging of  you  ! " 

"  You  've  seen  the  Kingslakes,  I  suppose  ?  " 
was  Lady  Wilmot's  next  query. 

"  No,  scarcely  once  since  they  got  into 
their  flat  last  November.  Just  as  they  came 
to  town,  I  moved  out,  and  the  children  have 
kept  me  bound  hand  and  foot  ever  since. 


140         The  Day's  Journey 

I  'm  going  to  rush  in  between  five  and  six  on 
my  way  to  Victoria." 

"  My  dear,  you  won't  know  Cecily !  " 

"Why  not?"  asked  Rose,  almost  sharply. 

"  So  pretty.  So  well  dressed.  Curious 
what  a  man  can  do,  is  n't  it  ?  No  wonder 
they  're  vain."  Lady  Wilmot  smiled  broadly 
as  she  raised  a  superfluously  buttered  muffin 
to  her  lips. 

"  What  man  ?  "  asked  Rose,  brusquely. 

"  Mayne,  my  dear ;  Dick  Mayne,  The 
Uncommercial  Traveller,  or  Patience  Re- 
warded. It  would  make  a  nice  little  modern 
tract.  But  the  result  is  admirable  as  far  as 
Cecily  is  concerned.  I  saw  her  about  eighteen 
months  ago.  She  came  up  to  a  lunch-party 
with  Robert.  She  was  positively  dowdy, 
and  like  the  lady  —  who  was  it  ?  —  who  had  no 
more  spirit  in  her.  Never  saw  such  a  collapse 
in  my  life,  and  every  one  agreed  with  me.  But 
now!  As  pretty  as  ever  —  prettier.  There's 
something  different  about  her,  too.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  Perhaps  it's  a  touch  of 
dignity  about  my  lady.  No,  it's  more  than 
that.  It's  something  a  little  sphinx-like. 
Anyhow,  it 's  a  most  effective  pose.  Every 
one  's  talking,  of  course ;  but,  as  I  tell  them, 
when  the  result  is  so  admirable  why  inquire 


The  Day's  Journey          141 

too  closely  about  the  means  ?  "  She  chuckled 
a  little.  Rose  looked  at  her  calmly. 

"  Every  one 's  talking  ?  "  she  said.  "  That 
means  what  you  so  aptly  describe  as  *  this 
sort  of  thing.' '  She  let  her  eyes  wander 
round  the  room,  which  was  now  filled  with 
chattering  women.  "  Does  it  matter  ? 
Cecily's  friends  know  as  well  as  you  do  that 
what  you  insinuate  is  a  —  is  not  true." 

Lady  Wilmot's  expression  wavered.  She 
had  crossed  swords  with  Rose  Summers 
before,  and  always  found  the  exercise  a 
little  exhausting.  Reluctantly  she  deter- 
mined to  be  amicable,  so  with  a  laugh  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Of  course,  my 
dear.  What  a  literal  mind  you  have !  You 
know  Robert 's  got  a  secretary  ? "  she  added, 
with  apparent  innocence. 

"  So  I  hear.  Philippa  Burton,"  returned 
Rose,  with  composure. 

Lady  Wilmot's  eyes  lit  up.  "  Do  you 
know  her?  " 

"  I  met  her  long  ago  in  Germany.  She 
was  a  school-fellow  of  Cecily's.  I  dare  say 
you  know  that." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lady  Wilmot  deter- 
mined on  a  new  move. 

"  Cecily  's  a  fool,"  she  said,  gravely,  —  "  that 


The  Day's  Journey 

is,  if  she  wants  to  keep  her  husband."  She 
glanced  sharply  at  Rose,  who  was  sipping 
her  tea  with  exasperating  indifference.  "  She 
had  driven  Robert  to  try  reprisals,  I  suppose." 
There  was  a  slight  pause,  during  which  Rose 
took  some  more  tea-cake.  "  That 's  what 
every  one  imagines,  anyhow,"  continued 
Lady  Wilmot,  with  a  distinct  access  of  sharp- 
ness. "  It 's  a  dangerous  game."  She  shook 
her  head  as  a  virtuous  matron  might  have 
done,  and  Rose  struggled  with  a  smile.  "  I  've 
no  patience  with  wives  who  allow  attractive 
women  to  enter  their  homes  under  the 
pretext  of  work  which  they  ought  to  be  doing 
themselves,"  she  concluded,  in  an  exasperated 
tone,  as  she  glanced  at  her  neighbor's  blank 
face.  "  Why  on  earth  does  n't  Cecily  act  as 
secretary  to  her  own  husband  ?  " 

"  Because  she 's  writing  a  novel  of  her  own, 
and  has  n't  time,"  said  Rose,  speaking  at  last, 
to  give,  from  Lady  Wilmot's  point  of  view, 
an  utterly  valueless  piece  of  information. 

"  Ridiculous  !  "  she  ejaculated.  "  I  should 
have  thought  there  was  enough  scribbling  in 
the  family.  Why  does  n't  she  look  after  her 
husband,  and  be  a  companion  and  helpmeet 
to  him,  instead  of  allowing  another  woman 
to  come  in  and  give  the  sympathy  which 


The  Day's  Journey          143 

only  a  wife — and  all  that  kind  of  thing?"  she 
concluded,  hastily,  becoming  suddenly  con- 
scious of  her  companion's  amused  eyes.  It 
was  a  triumph  for  Rose.  She  had  actually 
driven  Lady  Wilmot,  of  all  people,  into  the 
ridiculous  position  of  defending  the  domestic 
hearth,  and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  no  one  felt  her  position  more  keenly. 

She  rose  from  the  table,  extending  her  hand 
with  great  cordiality. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  delicious 
tea,"  she  said.  "And  I  'm  sure  you  '11  forgive 
me  for  rushing  off  in  this  unceremonious  way. 
My  train  goes  at  half-past  seven,  and  I  must 
get  Cecily  in,  as  well  as  socks  and  shoes  and 
sashes  and  things.  No,  dorit  move.  There 's 
such  a  crush  to  get  through,  and  I  can  find 
my  way  out  —  truly.  Good-bye."  She  was 
gone,  threading  her  way  between  the  tea-tables, 
and  smiling  back  at  Lady  Wilmot,  who  in- 
stantly summoned  a  bewildered  waiter,  upon 
whom  she  made  a  vague  attack  for  indefinite 
shortcomings. 

Rose  stepped  into  a  hansom  with  a  smile 
which  already  contained  more  bitterness  than 
amusement.  She  was  reviewing  facts  as 
interpreted  by  Lady  Wilmot  and  company. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

PHILIPPA'S  "studio"  was  a  somewhat 
uncomfortable  apartment  with  a  north 
light.  Its  walls  were  covered  with  brown 
paper,  upon  which  were  pinned  hasty  little 
sketches  by  the  latest  geniuses.  One  recognized 
the  latest  genius  by  the  newness  of  the  drawing- 
pins  ;  the  genius  before  last  had  generally  lost 
one  or  even  two  of  these  aids  to  stability,  and 
hung  at  a  neglected  angle.  Above  the  mantel- 
piece there  was  a  framed  photograph  of  Ros- 
setti's  Proserpine,  whom  Philippa  was  often 
thought  to  resemble.  The  floor  of  the  room 
was  stained,  and  over  it  at  intervals  were  laid 
pieces  of  striped  material  of  pseudo-Eastern 
manufacture,  fringed  and  flimsy.  The  furni- 
ture was  scanty,  but  high-principled  in  tone. 
It  was  that  sort  of  uncomfortable  furniture 
which  has  "  exquisite  simplicity  of  line,"  and  is 
affected  by  people  who  are  more  used  to  sitting 
on  boards  than  sofas.  There  was  an  easel  in 
a  prominent  position,  and  a  cupboard  with  a 


The  Day's  Journey          145 

glass  front  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  revealing 
various  cups  and  bowls  of  coarse  earthenware 
and  foreign  peasant  manufacture.  These  were 
the  cooking  and  eating  utensils  considered 
proper  to  the  Simple  Life. 

It  was  the  expense  of  the  Simple  Life  which 
Philippa  was  at  the  moment  considering,  as 
she  sat  curled  up  on  the  hearth-rug  before  the 
fire,  a  heap  of  bills  and  other  annoying  docu- 
ments in  her  lap.  It  was  half-past  three  in  the 
afternoon,  but  she  wore  a  dressing-gown  of 
rather  doubtful  cleanliness,  and  her  hair  was 
bunched  up  as  she  had  twisted  and  pinned  it 
when  she  got  out  of  bed. 

Philippa  belonged  to  the  eternal  art  student 
class ;  that  class  which  subsists  on  very  little 
talent  and  no  income ;  the  class  which  includes 
girls  who  would  be  better  employed  in  domes- 
tic service,  as  well  as  those  whom  a  genuine 
"  feeling "  for  art  has  rendered  unfit  for  any 
other  occupation  than  that  of  painfully  striving 
to  express  themselves  —  generally  in  vain. 
Though  a  member  of  this  great  sisterhood,  by 
the  possession  of  various  rather  exceptional 
gifts,  Philippa  had  managed  to  deviate  from 
its  normal  routine  of  monotony.  She  had 
beauty,  and  a  mind  wide  enough  to  hold  vague 
aspirations,  as  well  as  a  useful  shrewdness. 


146          The  Day's  Journey 

Long  ago  she  had  made  two  discoveries. 
First,  that  seventy  pounds  a  year  is  a  totally 
inadequate  income.  Secondly,  that  infrequent 
work  is  not  the  best  means  of  supplementing 
it.  There  are  other  ways,  and  Philippa  had 
tried  most  of  them. 

There  had  been  romantic  friendships  with 
women  of  property.  Philippa  had  always 
been  drawn  to  these  ladies  by  soul-affinity  — 
it  was  here  that  the  vagueness  of  her  mind 
stood  her  in  good  stead  —  but  that  fact  did 
not  lessen  their  balance  at  the  bank,  nor  the 
tangible  advantage  which  it  bestowed  on 
Philippa.  With  one  lady,  she  had  travelled 
in  Italy  and  Greece.  Another  had  paid  for 
her  course  of  instruction  in  enamelling,  and 
considered  herself  blest  in  being  allowed  the 
privilege.  A  third  had,  till  lately,  paid  the 
rent  of  her  studio.  Philippa  accepted  these 
benefits  with  a  beautiful  simplicity.  No  one 
better  than  she  could  gracefully  bear  an 
obligation.  She  had  the  rare  art  not  only 
of  making  the  benefactor  feel  privileged  but 
of  herself  believing  it  to  be  the  case.  With 
such  a  mixture  of  approbation  and  transient 
tenderness  for  the  giver,  might  an  angel  regard 
the  devotee  who  has  shielded  him  from  "  beat- 
ing in  the  void  his  luminous  wings  in  vain." 


The  Day's  Journey         147 

But  feminine  friendships  are  proverbially 
evanescent,  and  though  the  proverb  may 
contain  as  much  truth  as  other  conventional 
maxims,  Philippa  had  certainly  found  them 
"  disappointing."  She  had  frequently  to 
lament  the  jealousy  of  one,  the  pettiness  of 
another,  the  terrible  coarseness  of  fibre  of  a 
third.  And  though  women  are  numerous, 
their  incomes  are  usually  small,  and  to  be 
disappointed  in  one  dear  friend  with  money 
is  a  calamity.  She  is  not  easily  replaced. 

Philippa  was  not  only  deeply  disappointed  in 
Miss  Wetherby,  the  lady  who  for  two  years 
previous  had  ensured  the  rent  of  her  studio ; 
she  was  also  considerably  worried.  Their 
quarrel  had  been  upon  a  very  delicate  matter 
—  a  matter  of  money ;  and  Miss  Wetherby 
had  taken  a  low  but  decided  view  upon  a 
transaction  which  Philippa  was  accustomed  to 
slur  over  in  thought.  An  episode  followed 
upon  which,  again,  she  refused  to  dwell,  ex- 
cept at  intervals  when  she  received  a  little 
note  which  she  hastened  to  put  into  the  fire. 
She  had  that  very  morning  burned  one  of  these 
letters,  but,  however  unwillingly,  she  was  now 
obliged  to  consider  its  contents. 

Bohemia  is  a  wide  country,  and  some  of  its 
inhabitants  are  unsavory.  Eighteen  months 


148          The  Day's  Journey 

previous,  at  a  moment  when  a  cheque  was 
imperatively  necessary,  Philippa  had  allowed 
one  of  them  to  come  to  her  assistance.  She 
had  not  subsequently  treated  him  very  well, 
and  his  letters  began  to  threaten  her  peace  of 
mind.  They  hinted  at  danger.  It  was  then 
that  she  first  met  Robert.  Hitherto,  in  spite 
of  her  beauty,  her  relations  with  men,  with 
one  very  dubious  exception,  had  not  from  any 
material  point  of  view  been  satisfactory.  She 
had  met  few  —  of  the  right  sort.  There  had 
been  the  men  at  the  art  schools,  of  course, 
mostly  penniless,  who  had  raved  about  her. 
Philippa  had  not  encouraged  them,  further 
than  Artemis  might  have  encouraged  the 
worshippers  at  her  shrine.  They  were  prac- 
tically useless,  except  as  rather  shabby  burners 
of  incense.  Poverty  and  dependence  upon 
feminine  caprice  is  not  the  best  milieu  for 
making  the  acquaintance  of  rich  men,  added 
to  which  there  was  the  undoubted  fact  that 
the  average  man  of  the  world  had  a  tendency 
to  regard  Philippa  as  Mayne  had  regarded 
her.  He  did  not  care  for  "  that  kind  of 
thing."  Accustomed  to  "  smartness "  in 
women,  Philippa's  robes  made  him  feel  as 
vaguely  uncomfortable  as  her  intense  style  of 
conversation  abashed  and  disconcerted  him. 


The  Day's  Journey          149 

Certainly  it  required  a  man  who  at  least 
dabbled  in  art,  who  at  least  had  some  sym- 
pathy with  the  Quartier  Latin,  to  appreciate 
Philippa. 

For  some  time  before  she  and  Robert  had 
become  friends  she  had  known  him  by  sight. 
He  had  been  pointed  out  to  her  once  at  the 
Museum  as  Fergus  Macdonald,  the  novelist 
who  was  becoming  well  known,  and  bade  fair 
presently  to  coin  money.  Before  very  long  it 
was  obvious  that  he  admired  her,  and  with  no 
definite  idea  as  to  the  result,  yet  with  a  sure 
instinct  that  it  was  the  wise  course  to  adopt, 
Philippa  had  extended  her  period  of  reading. 
The  outcome  had  been  satisfactory,  though 
it  was  a  blow  to  learn  that  he  was  married, 
and  a  blow  that  was  not  softened  by  the  dis- 
covery that  she  knew  his  wife.  In  the  early 
days  of  their  acquaintance,  Philippa  read 
much  literature  which  dealt  with  the  possi- 
bility of  friendship  between  man  and  woman. 
At  a  later  date,  when  Robert  was  getting  a 
little  out  of  hand,  and  her  own  thoughts  began 
to  stray  towards  putting  their  sacred  friend- 
ship upon  a  different  plane,  she  discovered 
many  treatises  upon  the  doctrine  of  free  love. 
She  began  to  study  the  subject,  and  found  it 
quite  engrossing.  It  seemed  to  her  a  very 


150         The  Day's  Journey 

beautiful  and  noble  attitude  towards  a  great 
aspect  of  human  life.  Robert  and  she  often 
discussed  it  together  earnestly.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  Simple  Life,  which,  at  the  recom- 
mendation of  Tolstoi,  Miles,  and  others,  she 
had  adopted  since  the  defection  of  Miss 
Wetherby,  had  not  proved  so  economical  as  she 
had  hoped.  Besides,  she  was  getting  tired  of  it. 

Robert  frequently  took  her  out  to  lunch, 
and  the  frailty  of  the  natural  man  prevailing 
over  the  submission  of  the  lover,  he  had, 
at  an  early  date,  abandoned  the  vegetarian 
restaurant  for  Prince's  or  the  Carlton.  Re- 
signing her  principles,  as  a  tender  conces- 
sion to  Robert's  weakness,  Philippa  had 
become  reconciled  to  six-course  meals,  and 
began  to  hate  plasmon  and  suspect  the 
efficacy  of  vegetables  as  an  incentive  to 
exalted  thought. 

She  began  to  yearn,  like  the  rich  man,  to 
fare  sumptuously  every  day.  Yet  what  was 
the  use  of  such  a  desire  as  that  when  not 
only  was  she  hard  pressed  to  live  at  all,  but 
also  more  deeply  in  debt  than  she  cared  to 
own  even  to  herself?  In  old  days,  living  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  smiles  and  the  blank 
cheques  of  her  dearest  friends,  Philippa  had 
run  up  bills  with  alarming  celerity.  The 


The  Day's  Journey          151 

"  simple "  dress  was  not  cheap.  Neither 
were  the  ornaments  for  which  she  had  an 
unfortunate  weakness ;  clasps  and  pendants 
of  enamel  and  uncut  gems  of  chaste  and 
simple  workmanship  —  but  quite  expensive. 
The  bills  began  to  come  in  with  alarming 
frequency,  and  a  growing  tendency  to  un- 
pleasant remark.  She  grew  depressed. 
Robert,  who  raged  over  the  injustice  of  a 
callous  world  which  imposed  poverty  on 
beauty,  constantly  implored  to  be  allowed  to 
lighten  the  load.  Philippa,  smiling  through 
her  tears,  as  constantly  refused. 

It  was  she  who  had  at  last  suggested  the 
secretaryship.  Robert  had  at  first  demurred, 
and  seeing  this  she  had  pressed  the  point, 
had  made  it  a  test  of  his  love  for  her.  In  no 
other  way  would  she  take  from  him  so  much 
as  a  farthing.  He  yielded,  and  under  cover 
of  her  value  to  him  as  secretary  Robert  paid 
her  an  absurdly  generous  salary. 

But  even  with  Robert  to  the  rescue  matters 
were  bad  enough.  Philippa  fingered  disgustedly 
the  last  bill  she  had  received,  and  finally  threw 
it  into  the  fire.  She  sat  gazing  at  the  flame 
it  made,  the  furrow  between  her  eyes  deepen- 
ing as  she  thought.  And  in  the  background 
there  was  something  worse.  Characteristically 


152          The  Day's  Journey 

she  did  not  face  it.  She  thought  of  it 
hazily,  indeed,  but  it  was  inexorably  there. 
She  had  put  a  weapon  into  the  hands  of  a 
man  who,  if  he  used  it  at  all,  would  not  use 
it  like  a  gentleman. 

A  neighboring  church  clock  struck,  and 
she  started  up.  Quarter  to  four  !  —  and  she 
was  not  dressed. 

She  hastened  into  her  bedroom,  which 
opened  out  of  the  studio,  and  began  to  make 
a  hasty  toilet.  The  room  was  untidy  and  not 
very  clean,  and  if  to  the  garments  revealed 
when  the  dressing-gown  was  thrown  aside 
the  same  remark  applied,  it  must  in  justice 
be  remembered  that  even  perfect  cleanliness 
is  dependent  upon  the  amount  of  living  wage. 
By  the  time  the  down-stairs  bell  rang  at  a  few 
minutes  past  four,  Philippa  looked  like  the 
Blessed  Damosel,  and  Mr.  Nevern,  as  he 
followed  her  up  the  studio  stairs,  felt  what 
it  was  to  be  on  the  right  side  of  the  gold 
bar  of  heaven. 

"  Can't  I  help  ?  "  he  begged,  as  she  began 
to  make  preparations  for  tea.  It  seemed  a 
profanation  that  she  should  stoop  to  put  the 
kettle  on  the  fire.  Yet  how  wonderfully  it 
became  her  to  bend  her  long,  graceful  body, 
and  how  she  seemed  to  dignify  and  make 


The  Day's  Journey          153 

mysterious  the  simplest  actions !  By  the 
time  he  received  a  cup  from  her  hands,  Mr. 
Nevern  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  spiritual 
exaltation. 

"  I  have  had  a  holiday  to-day,"  she  told 
him,  leaning  back  in  the  one  comfortable  chair 
the  room  contained.  "  Mr.  Kingslake  is  out 
of  town  on  business  till  to-morrow." 

Her  companion's  face  darkened  with  envy 
of  the  man  with  whom  she  spent  half  of 
every  day. 

"  How  long  have  you  —  had  this  work  ?  " 
he  inquired,  trying  to  speak  naturally. 

"  I  've  only  just  begun.  It 's  interesting, 
of  course.  But  I  can't  say  I  'm  not  glad  of 
a  long  day  to  myself  sometimes.  It 's  good 
in  this  hurried  age  to  have  time  to  possess 
one's  soul,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  come 
this  afternoon,  —  to  let  me  disturb  you," 
murmured  Nevern. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  wanted  to  make  my 
holiday  complete,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile 
which  set  the  young  man's  heart  beating. 
"How  is  the  book  going?"  she  pursued, 
placing  her  left  hand  tenderly  on  a  slim 
volume  of  verse  which  lay  on  the  table 
beside  her. 


154          The  Day's  Journey 

Nevern,  following  the  motion  of  her  hand, 
glowed  with  joy. 

"  Not  well,"  was  all  he  could  find  to  say, 
however,  and  that  gloomily. 

"  Are  you  surprised  ?  "  asked  Philippa,  with 
tender  raillery.  "  Does  delicate,  beautiful  work 
like  this  appeal  to  the  multitude  ?  " 

Nevern  smiled  deprecatingly,  but  his  heart 
bounded. 

"You  mustn't  say  such  charming  things," 

he  stammered.  "You  make  me "  He 

checked  himself  and  hurriedly  drank  his  tea. 

"  I  don't  know  which  is  my  favorite,"  she 
went  on,  thoughtfully,  turning  the  leaves  of 
the  book.  "  This,  perhaps,  with  its  beautiful 
refrain."  She  read  the  lines  softly,  while 
Nevern  trembled  with  happiness.  "  Or  this. 
But  they  are  all  exquisite."  She  continued 
to  turn  the  leaves  with  her  long,  delicate 
fingers,  with  a  touch  like  a  caress,  while  she 
talked.  The  sound  of  her  voice  was  music 
in  the  young  man's  ears,  the  flattery  of  her 
words  an  intoxication.  He  was  sometimes 
conscious  that  he  spoke  at  random,  while  his 
eyes  were  on  her  face,  and  then  he  flushed  and 
pulled  himself  together,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice  his  temporary  lapses ;  her  eyes  met 
his,  limpid,  full  of  sympathy,  deeper  than  the 


The  Day's  Journey          155 

depths  of  waters  stilled  at  even.  He  found 
himself  repeating  the  lines  to  himself  while  she 
was  giving  him  a  second  cup  of  tea.  His  hand 
touched  hers  as  she  passed  it,  and  his  own 
shook  so  that  some  of  the  tea  was  spilled.  A 
drop  or  two  splashed  onto  Philippa's  velve- 
teen gown.  With  an  exclamation  of  impa- 
tience for  his  clumsiness,  Nevern  fell  on  his 
knees  and,  snatching  out  his  handkerchief, 
wiped  away  the  stain. 

"Your  beautiful  dress!"  he  murmured. 
Suddenly  he  stooped  lower  and  kissed  it. 
She  did  not  move,  and,  emboldened,  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his  lips,  tremblingly 
at  first,  and  then  passionately. 

When  he  raised  his  head  she  was  looking 
at  him  with  an  adorable  expression  of  com- 
passion and  tenderness. 

"  Philippa  !  "  he  stammered  ;  "  I  love  you. 
Will  you  —  will  you  marry  me?  Oh,  you 
don't  know  how  I " 

For  a  moment  she  continued  to  look  at  him 
with  an  expression  he  found  hard  to  read,  then 
she  rose  abruptly,  and  moving  to  the  mantel- 
piece, stood  leaning  against  it  with  averted  face. 

Nevern  also  rose.  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, then  drawing  himself  up  he  followed  her. 

"  Philippa,"  he  said  again  very  simply,  "  I 


156          The  Day's  Journey 

know  I  'm  not  worthy  of  you.  But  no  one 
will  ever  love  you  better  than  I  love  you. 
Will  you  marry  me  ? "  His  boyishness 
dropped  from  him  as  he  spoke.  Of  his 
customary  rather  foolish  affectation  of  voice 
and  manner,  there  was  not  a  trace.  A  real 
emotion  had  given  him  dignity. 

Philippa  turned.  She  glanced  hurriedly  at 
his  face,  and  paused  a  moment  before  she  said 
pleadingly,  "  Dear  Nigel,  don't  disturb  our 
friendship  —  yet.  It  has  been  such  happiness. 
I  don't  want  things  altered  —  at  any  rate  yet 
awhile." 

Nevern  hesitated,  disappointment  strug- 
gling with  hope.  "  But  later  ?  "  he  begged  at 
last.  "  May  I  some  time  later " 

She  smiled.  "  We  shall  see.  Let  us  leave 
things  as  they  are  indefinitely  —  well,  for  the 
present  at  all  events.  And  now,  dear  friend,  I 
think  you  must  go."  She  put  out  her  hand, 
smiling  her  rare,  elusive  smile. 

Nevern  seized  it  and  covered  it  with  kisses 
before  she  gently  withdrew  it. 

"  I  may  come  again  ?  Soon  ?  "  he  whispered, 
hoarsely. 

"  Yes ;  but  not  till  I  write."  She  watched 
him,  still  smiling,  as  he  went  to  the  door,  and 
turned  for  a  last  look  at  her. 


The  Day's  Journey          157 

"When  the  hall  door  slammed,  she  drew 
herself  up  with  a  long,  weary  sigh.  How 
badly  everything  was  arranged  !  Why  could 
she  not  have  met  Nigel  Nevern  a  year  ago 
instead  of 

She  went  slowly  into  her  bedroom,  and 
returned  with  a  photograph  at  which  she  gazed 
long  and  earnestly,  and  finally  put  down  with 
a  sigh. 

Robert  was  very  attractive.  And  she  was 
in  love  with  him,  of  course.  She  was  almost 
angry  to  remember  that  Nigel  Nevern  had  two 
thousand  a  year. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

BY  the  time  November  came  round  again, 
Cecily's  life  had  settled  down  to  a  more 
or  less  steady  routine.  She  gave  the  mornings 
to  her  work,  and  her  book  was  growing. 
Her  afternoons,  and  many  evenings,  were 
taken  up  by  social  duties  and  occasional 
pleasures.  With  the  persistence  of  a  patient 
going  through  a  prescribed  cure,  she  con- 
trived that  no  hour  of  her  time  should  be 
unoccupied.  She  cultivated  her  natural  gifts 
as  a  clever  hostess,  and  began  to  entertain. 
Her  little  parties  were  popular,  for  like  her 
father,  who  in  his  time  had  been  a  famous 
host,  she  possessed  an  instinct  for  the  right 
people,  and  it  began  to  be  assumed  that  at 
Mrs.  Kingslake's  one  would  at  least  escape  a 
dull  evening.  Sometimes  her  husband  was 
present ;  more  often  he  was  away ;  but  he 
encouraged  the  parties,  and  gradually  Cecily 
grew  accustomed  to  knowing  as  little  of  his 
engagements  as  if  he  were  a  stranger. 


The  Day's  Journey          159 

Philippa  had  not  taken  up  her  duties  as 
secretary  until  their  return  to  town  in  the 
autumn  after  a  holiday  which  Cecily  had  spent 
with  Diana  by  the  sea,  and  Robert  abroad, 
whence  he  had  written  occasional  letters,  vague 
in  tone  as  well  as  address. 

The  two  women  scarcely  ever  met.  At 
ten  o'clock,  when  Philippa  went  to  Robert's 
study,  Cecily  was  at  work  in  her  own  room, 
whence  she  did  not  emerge  till  after  the  sec- 
retary's hour  for  departure.  With  all  her 
strength  she  strove  to  forget  her  presence  in 
the  house,  and  the  effort,  at  first  apparently 
impossible,  became  at  last  no  effort  at  all. 
Gradually  her  work  absorbed  her;  gradually 
she  began  to  live  in  another  world  of  her 
own  creating,  often  so  completely  that  she 
woke  with  a  start  to  the  consciousness  of 
her  outward  existence,  in  so  far  as  it  was 
connected  at  all  with  her  husband. 

It  was  of  the  strangeness  of  this  she 
had  been  thinking  one  afternoon  as  she 
walked  through  St.  James's  Park  on  her  way 
home. 

It  was  the  hour  of  twilight,  that  hour 
which,  in  the  autumn  and  in  London,  has  a 
magic  past  the  power  of  words.  The  dusky 
red  of  sunset  lingered,  and  burned  solemnly 


160          The  Day's  Journey 

through  that  swimming  purple  haze  which 
London  draws  like  a  veil  spftly  over  its  parks, 
its  squares,  its  ugliest  streets,  turning  to 
velvet  softness  the  outlines  of  church,  palace, 
or  factory. 

On  her  left,  rendered  more  gigantic  by 
the  effect  of  the  haze,  the  huge  block  of 
Queen  Anne's  Mansions  loomed  like  a 
mediaeval  fortress  on  the  farther  side  of  a 
mist-filled  valley,  from  which  slender  poplars 
sprang.  Everywhere  points  of  flame  ringed 
the  gathering  darkness  —  flames  of  trembling 
amber,  specks  of  crimson  and  emerald  where 
the  hansoms  were  moving  —  and  before  her, 
at  the  end  of  the  broad  avenue,  silver  globes 
burned  before  the  great  vague  pile  of  masonry 
which  was  Buckingham  Palace. 

Cecily  walked  slowly,  aware  of  the  myste- 
rious beauty  of  that  brief  moment  when  night 
touches  departing  day.  There  was  a  wisp  of 
silver  moon  in  the  deep  blue  overhead,  and 
near  it  one  star  trembled. 

Involuntarily  she  smiled,  and  started  to 
realize  that  it  was  for  happiness.  What  had 
become  of  the  torment,  the  unrest,  of  even 
a  year  ago  ?  It  was  gone.  She  had  peace. 
She  was  out  of  bondage.  She  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  world  almost  as  an  intoxication ;  with 


The  Day's  Journey          161 

the  keenness,  the  freshness  of  perception  that 
seems  granted  to  human  faculties  after  pain. 
The  thought  of  her  nearly  completed  book 
thrilled  her  with  pleasurable  excitement.  She 
remembered  that  Mayne  was  coming  to  dinner, 
and  that  she  had  promised  to  read  him  the 
last  completed  chapter.  They  would  have 
a  nice  little  time  together  by  the  fire,  before 
the  theatre  to  which  he  was  going  to  take  her. 
Robert  was  to  be  out.  She  did  not  know 
where,  though  she  guessed  —  and  it  did  n't 
matter.  She  drew  herself  up  with  a  thrill  of 
thankfulness  that  it  did  not  matter.  It  was 
wonderful  to  be  out  of  pain.  The  realization 
that  she  had  refused  to  be  crushed  by  circum- 
stances, that  she  had  mastered  her  life  and 
turned  it  at  her  will,  filled  her  with  a  sense 
of  triumph,  of  exultation. 

Involuntarily  she  quickened  her  pace,  as 
though  to  make  her  steps  keep  time  to  her 
eager  thoughts.  As  she  crossed  Victoria  Street, 
the  great  campanile  of  the  Cathedral  drew  her 
eyes  upwards  towards  the  stars,  and  her  heart 
towards  it  in  gratitude.  At  this  hour  it  was 
more  wonderful  than  ever,  its  outline,  faint  and 
purple,  melting  like  a  dream  into  the  purple 
sky.  With  it  she  always  associated  her  liberty, 
her  present  peace,  her  recovered  energy,  all 


i6i          The  Day's  Journey 

that  had  brought  her  out  of  hell  into  the  light 
of  day. 

When  she  entered  the  flat  and  opened  the 
drawing-room  door,  it  was  to  think  how  pretty, 
how  cosy  it  looked  in  the  firelight.  Tea 
was  ready  on  a  low  table  near  the  hearth. 
The  firelight  danced  over  the  dainty  flowered 
cups,  and  darting  about  the  room  fell  now 
upon  a  bowl  of  roses,  now  on  the  emerald  silk 
of  a  cushion,  bringing  its  color  out  in  strong 
relief  against  the  pale-tinted  walls.  A  maid 
came  in  with  a  tea-pot  and  a  plate  of  hot 
cakes,  and  long  after  she  had  put  down  her 
cup  Cecily  sat  dreaming  over  the  fire.  She 
roused  presently,  with  a  glance  at  the  clock, 
to  find  it  was  time  to  change  her  dress.  All 
the  while  she  moved  about  in  her  bedroom, 
taking  off  her  walking-gown,  doing  her  hair, 
fastening  the  bodice  of  her  evening  dress, 
her  mind  was  pleasantly  preoccupied.  She 
was  thinking  of  the  people  in  her  book, 
people  who  were  flesh  and  blood  to  her. 
They  would  be  discussed  to-night,  and  Dick 
was  no  lenient  critic.  She  wondered  what 
he  would  think  of  her  last  chapter. 

All  at  once,  with  a  curious  sense  of  having 
failed  to  realize  something,  she  began  to 
wonder  what  she  should  do  without  Dick. 


The  Day's  Journey          163 

Suppose  he  were  to  start  now  on  another 
expedition  —  next  week,  perhaps  ?  She  was 
fastening  a  chain  round  her  neck  when  the 
possibility  occurred  to  her,  and  all  at  once  her 
hands  dropped  down  into  her  lap  and  she 
stared  blankly  into  the  glass.  The  thought 
startled  her.  It  was  a  little  like  having  the 
solid  ground  upon  which  she  walked,  and 
which  she  accepted  without  consideration  as 
part  of  the  recognized  order  of  things,  cut 
from  under  her  feet.  So  confused  and 
absorbed  was  she  at  first,  that  not  for  some 
time  did  she  become  conscious  of  her  own 
reflection  in  the  mirror.  When  her  mind  was 
awake  to  it,  that  too  came  as  a  surprise. 
She  was  almost  pretty  again.  There  was 
clear  color  in  her  cheeks ;  her  eyes  were 
bright. 

"  I  suppose  this  frock  is  becoming,"  she 
told  herself  as  she  turned  away. 

Dick  was  waiting  for  her  when  she  re- 
entered  the  drawing-room.  He  was  standing 
near  the  fire,  holding  one  hand  to  the  blaze, 
and  as  he  turned,  she  thought  how  big  he 
looked,  how  reliable,  and  she  smiled.  It 
was  surprising  how  glad  she  always  was  to 
see  Dick.  He  never  bored  her. 

"  You  're  looking  very  pleased  with  things 


164         The  Day's  Journey 

in  general,"  he  observed  as  he  took  her  hand. 
"  Is  it  because  you  've  got  on  a  new  dress  ?  I 
agree  with  you.  It 's  charming." 

Cecily  laughed.  "Shall  I  turn  round  slowly, 
to  give  you  the  full  effect?  Observe  the  lin- 
ing of  its  sleeves  and  its  dear  little  crystal 
clasps!" 

"  I  have  observed  them,"  he  said,  "  and  their 
effect  on  you.  It 's  all  that  could  be  wished." 
He  spoke  lightly,  but  his  tone  did  not  tend  to 
diminish  her  light-hearted  mood. 

"  Now  come !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Sit  there  ! 
Did  you  think  you  were  here  to  enjoy  your- 
self? You've  got  to  listen  to  this  chapter 
before  dinner,  and  listen  hard,  and  think  how 
you  can  put  severe  criticism  into  a  palatable 
form  for  me.  I  insist  on  the  criticism,  but  I 
won't  take  it  neat !  " 

She  went  to  her  writing-table,  and  returned 
with  the  written  chapter,  while  Dick  obediently 
settled  himself  into  a  comfortable  chair. 

"Go  ahead!"  he  remarked.  "May  I 
smoke? " 

The  fire  clicked  a  pleasant  accompaniment 
to  Cecily's  voice.  The  lamplight  streamed 
down  upon  her  soft,  thick  hair.  One  of  her 
hands  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  white 
and  slender  against  the  folds  of  her  dress. 


The  Day's  Journey          165 

It  was  her  left  hand,  and  the  firelight  fell  on 
the  gold  of  her  wedding-ring.  Mayne  looked 
at  it  once,  and  averted  his  gaze  with  a  half 
frown.  At  first  it  was  altogether  of  her  he 
was  thinking,  his  pulses  still  beating  rather 
quickly,  as  they  always  beat  when  he  first  saw 
her,  at  every  one  of  their  meetings.  At  the 
beginning  of  their  intimacy  he  had  been  ter- 
ribly afraid  of  betraying  himself,  of  making 
their  friendship  impossible,  but  he  had  long 
ago  learned  to  trust  his  own  power  of  self- 
control,  and  his  manner  to  Cecily  had  been 
the  perfection  of  that  affectionate  friendliness 
whose  justification  is  long  acquaintance. 

Gradually  his  attention  began  to  be  held  by 
what  she  was  reading.  It  seemed  to  him  to 
be  very  good.  This  impression  increased  as 
she  went  on,  till  he  grew  absorbed,  almost 
breathless.  When  finally  she  put  down  the 
last  sheet  and  looked  up  at  him,  rather  nerv- 
ously, he  was  silent. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  demanded,  her  voice  shaken 
in  a  tremulous  laugh. 

Mayne  got  up  and  put  his  back  against  the 
mantelpiece.  "  Braro  !  "  he  said,  deliberately. 
"  It 's  good,  Cis — jolly  good." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which 
the  color  rushed  into  her  face,  and  her  hands 


i66          The  Day's  Journey 

began  to  tremble.  The  particular  scene  she 
had  read  had  meant  a  great  deal  to  her,  how 
much  she  had  not  realized  till  she  heard  his 
evidently  deeply  felt  words  of  praise. 

"You  think  so?  "  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"  I  know  it,"  he  returned,  in  the  decisive 
voice  which  had  often  comforted  her.  He 
looked  down  at  her,  smiling.  "  Did  n't  I  al- 
ways say  you  could  do  it  ?  I  don't  care  what 
the  public  verdict  is  —  and  it 's  quite  likely  to 
be  slighting.  You  've  done  a  splendid  piece 
of  work,  and,  by  Jove  !  if  you  're  half  as  proud 

of  it  as  I  am "  He  paused,  and  they 

both  laughed. 

"  Dick,"  she  said  gently  after  a  moment,  "  I 
should  n't  have  done  it  at  all  if  it  had  n't  been 
for  you." 

The  door  opened  at  the  moment,  and  the 
parlor-maid  came  in  to  announce  dinner. 

Cecily  sprang  up.  "  Come  along  !  "  she  said, 
gayly.  "  We  must  gallop  through  the  courses 
—  there  are  scarcely  any,  by  the  way  —  or  else 
we  shall  be  late,  and  I  hate  being  late." 

Mayne  followed  her  into  the  dining-room, 
glad  and  sorry  for  the  interruption ;  and 
through  dinner,  and  afterwards  in  the  cab  on 
their  way  to  the  Haymarket,  they  talked  on 
indifferent  topics. 


The  Day's  Journey          167 

"  It 's  going  to  rain,"  said  Cecily,  as  they 
drew  up  before  the  door,  and,  indeed,  when 
they  came  out  after  the  play,  the  streets  were 
all  wet  and  shining. 

"  Is  n't  it  beautiful  and  wonderful !  "  she 
exclaimed,  as  they  drove  home.  "  It 's  Alad- 
din's palace  !  "  The  streets  were  like  long  riv- 
ers of  silver,  in  which  were  reflected  trembling 
shafts  of  gold  and  ruby  and  amber.  Over- 
head the  moon  sailed  clear  of  clouds  in  an 
enormous  gulf  of  star-sown  sky.  "How  can 
any  one  say  that  London  is  n't  wonderful  ?  " 
she  went  on.  "To  me  it  's  a  magic  city. 
Look  at  those  great  swinging  globes.  They  're 
shooting  out  starry  spikes  of  enchantment  all 
the  time.  And  see  those  trees  against  the 
sky!" 

They  had  turned  into  the  Mall  by  this  time, 
and  Dick  glanced  at  her.  Her  eyes  were 
shining,  her  lips  a  little  parted  with  eagerness. 
Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  woman  with  whom 
he  had  walked  across  the  meadows  at  Sheep- 
cote.  He  recalled  her  drawn  face  and  faded 
eyes,  and  something  that  was  almost  like  an 
instinct  of  cruelty  prompted  his  next  words. 

"  How  does  Miss  Burton  do  as  secretary  ?  " 
he  asked.  He  had  never  before  alluded  to 
her  daily  presence  in  the  house. 


i68          The  Day's  Journey 

She  glanced  at  him  a  moment,  in  her  turn. 

"  Oh,  I  believe  very  well,"  she  returned, 
quietly,  with  no  trace  of  confusion.  "  Robert 
hopes  to  get  his  new  book  out  in  the  spring." 

"  And  yours  ?  " 

"  It 's  got  to  be  accepted  first,"  she  returned, 
with  a  laugh.  "  But  I  shall  finish  it  in  a  week, 
I  think."  She  sighed.  "  How  I  shall  miss 
it!" 

"  Begin  something  else  at  once,"  he  advised. 
"You  have  ideas?" 

"  Thousands  !  "  she  said,  gayly. 

They  were  near  home  by  this  time,  and 
Mayne  put  out  his  hand.  "  I  congratulate 
you." 

Cecily  looked  at  him.  "  On  the  book,  you 
mean  ? " 

"  On  everything,"  he  returned,  gravely. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Cecily  as  he  took  her 
latch-key  and  opened  the  hall  door  for  her. 
"  Thank  you  so  much." 


CHAPTER   XV 

ONE  day  early  in  April,  Kingslake,  who 
was  walking  towards  the  district  station 
at  Victoria,  was  stopped  by  a  man  he  knew 
slightly  and  would  like  to  have  known  better ; 
a  man  justly  celebrated  in  the  world  of  science 
and  letters. 

"  How  are  you,  Kingslake  ? "  he  said. 
"  Where  are  you  going  ?  I  'm  just  on  my  way 
to  you." 

Robert  shook  hands  cordially,  but  looked 
mystified. 

"  On  your  way  to  me  ?  "  he  began. 

"  Calling  on  your  wife.  Bless  the  man,  he 
does  n't  know  his  wife's  at-home  day,  I  be- 
lieve ! "  Powis  laughed  good-temperedly  as 
he  spoke.  "  I  expect  you  hate  that  kind  of 
thing.  Well,  so  do  I,  as  a  rule.  It  takes  as 
charming  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Kingslake  to  get 
an  old  fellow  like  me  out  calling  nowadays, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Robert  smiled.  He  had  no  idea  that  Cecily 
knew  Powis  at  all. 


iy°         The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  see  her  book  's  coming  out  on  Monday," 
the  elder  man  went  on.  "  Great  excitement 
for  you  both,  eh  ?  Well,  I  hope  it  '11  be  a 
great  success.  She  deserves  it.  Clever  girl ! 
I  always  thought,  even  when  she  was  a  little 
thing  at  home,  she  'd  astonish  us  all  some  day. 
You  kept  her  in  the  country  too  long,  Kings- 
lake.  We  're  all  glad  to  see  her  back." 

Robert  murmured  a  fairly  appropriate  reply. 
He  felt  rather  dazed  and  confused. 

"  When  are  we  to  have  your  new  novel  ? " 
was  the  next  question.  "  Must  n't  lag  behind 
your  wife,  you  know.  Why  don't  you  col- 
laborate ?  But  I  expect  you  do.  Well,  we  're 
impeding  the  traffic  here.  Sorry  I  sha'n't  see 
you  at  the  flat  this  afternoon.  Good-bye." 
He  hurried  off,  leaving  Robert  to  ponder  his 
voluble  words. 

Cecily's  book  out  on  Monday  ?  He  did  n't 
even  know  she  was  writing  a  book.  He 
walked  on  to  the  station,  and  mechanically 
took  a  ticket  for  South  Kensington.  "  Great 
excitement  for  you  both."  The  genial  words 
fell  again  on  his  ear  with  ironical  effect,  while 
he  was  at  the  same  moment  conscious  of  one 
more  stab  to  his  vanity  —  an  important  per- 
sonal equipment,  which,  of  late,  had  been 
wounded  more  than  a  little.  His  own  new 


The  Day's  Journey          171 

book  had  been  out  quite  six  weeks,  and  it  had 
fallen  absolutely  flat.  This  fact,  a  not  un- 
common check  to  the  rising  novelist,  had  de- 
pressed him  considerably.  Cecily  had  been 
very  sympathetic  about  it.  He  remembered 
this  still,  with  gratitude.  Cecily,  he  reflected, 
was  one  of  the  few  people  who  could  be  sorry 
for  one  without  wounding. 

So  she  had  been  writing  a  book  !  It  seemed 
strange  to  think  of  it.  He  remembered  how, 
in  the  early  years  of  their  marriage,  he  had 
sometimes  found  her  "scribbling."  He  re- 
membered how  he  had  at  first  laughed  and 
teased  her,  and  afterwards,  when  she  had  shown 
symptoms  of  "  taking  it  seriously,"  how  he 
had  shown  his  disapproval.  He  thought  of 
this  now,  and  it  seemed  to  him  rather  a  con- 
temptible attitude  to  have  adopted.  He  felt 
vaguely  ashamed.  But  he  had  been  jealous, 
really  jealous ;  he  recalled  the  sensation  now 
with  a  curious  stirring  of  a  forgotten  emotion 
with  regard  to  his  wife — jealous  that  she 
should  be  absorbed  in  anything  that  did  not 
concern  him.  How  long  ago  it  all  seemed  ! 
And  now  she  had  written  a  novel,  and  he  did 
not  even  know  who  was  her  publisher.  He 
supposed  she  had  placed  it  the  more  easily  be- 
cause of  his  name,  which  was  also  hers.  There 


172          The  Day's  Journey 

was  comfort  in  that  reflection.  He  was  glad 
to  have  been  of  use  to  her.  He  hoped  she 
would  get  some  encouragement;  he  hoped 

And  then  he  shook  himself  impatiently, 
conscious  that  he  was  not  really  thinking  any 
of  these  things.  All  that  was  vividly  present 
in  his  mind  was  a  touch  of  resentment,  a 
curious  sense  of  bitterness  that  he  knew  so 
little  about  her ;  that  he  did  not  even  know 
the  men  who  went  to  the  house.  Except 
Mayne.  He  frowned  involuntarily.  Mayne 
was  there  a  good  deal.  Well,  he  himself  had 
often  impressively  invited  him.  With  some 
haste  he  dismissed  this  reflection.  At  the  mo- 
ment it  was  one  he  did  not  feel  disposed  to 
investigate.  It  was  unfortunate  that  he  could 
not  feel  cordial  towards  Mayne.  But  after 
all,  one's  likes  and  dislikes  were  not  within 
one's  control,  and  Mayne  was  Cecily's  friend, 

and  so He  banished  the  subject  with  an 

impatient  shrug. 

On  emerging  from  the  station  at  South 
Kensington,  he  heard  his  name  uttered  some- 
what piercingly,  and  in  response  to  a  peremp- 
tory order,  a  motor-car  drew  up  smoothly 
beside  the  curb. 

"How  are  you,  Robin?"  Lady  Wilmot 
exclaimed,  extending  a  hand.  "  And  why  are 


The  Day's  Journey          173 

you  in  this  direction  on  your  wife's  at-home 
day  ?     I  'm  on  my  way  to  her.     How  is  she  ? 
As    pretty  as   ever?     I    met    her  at  the  Du- 
quesne's  last  week,  and  thought    her  looking 
charming.     The   country  and   your   exclusive 
society,  my  dear,  evidently  disagreed  with  her." 
"  You  are  always  kind,"  returned  Robert. 
"  And  what  is  this  I   hear  about  a  book  of 
hers  ?  "  she  pursued. 

"  It 's  coming  out  on  Monday,"  said  Robert, 
thankful  to  be  able  to  supply  the  informa- 
tion. 

"  You  '11  have  a  rival  near  home  !  "  chuckled 
his  companion.  "That  last  book  of  yours 
is  n't  doing  much,  is  it  ?  Knights  and  castles 
and  things  are  off  for  the  moment,  I  think. 
Why  don't  you  write  a  society  novel  ?  They 
always  take,  if  you  make  the  women  spiteful 
enough ;  but  I  admit  the  difficulty  of  that. 
Well,  I  must  be  off.  Your  wife 's  a  good 
hostess.  I  never  miss  her  parties.  Good-bye, 
my  dear.  When  will  you  come  and  dine  ? " 
The  last  question  was  put  in  a  shrill  voice 
over  her  shoulder,  as  the  car  glided  off. 

Robert  walked  on.  The  little  interview  had 
not  raised  his  spirits,  and  as  he  turned  into  the 
quiet,  rather  shabby  little  road  which  contained 
Philippa's  studio,  it  was  with  a  shock  the 


174          The  Day's  Journey 

reverse  of  pleasant  that  he  saw  Nevern  coming 
down  the  steps  of  her  house.  He  knew  the 
young  man  slightly,  and  nodded  to  him  as  he 
passed.  Before  the  door  opened,  he  noticed 
that  Nevern  turned  and  watched  his  admit- 
tance with  what  his  imagination,  at  least,  con- 
strued into  an  angry  frown. 

Philippa  opened  the  door  —  she  kept  no 
servant  —  and  he  followed  her  upstairs  with- 
out speaking. 

When  the  studio  door  closed  she  turned 
round  and  looked  at  him,  inquiry  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  tenderly,  in  her  deepest 
voice  as  she  held  out  both  hands. 

Robert  ignored  them,  and  walked  moodily 
towards  the  fire. 

"  Robert !  "  murmured  Philippa. 

He  was  silent. 

Philippa  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  as  though 
taking  a  sudden  determination,  she  followed 
him  to  the  fire,  and  resting  one  elbow  on  the 
mantelpiece,  looked  at  him  haughtily. 

"  Will  you  explain  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  What  was  Nevern  doing  here  ? "  asked 
Robert,  abruptly. 

Philippa  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  He  was  calling  on  me." 

"  Does  he  often  call  ?     Do  you  often  have 


The  Day's  Journey          175 

men    here  —  to    see  you?"     He    spoke  in   a 
voice  of  suppressed  anger. 

"  Quite  often,"  returned  Philippa,  firmly ; 
"why  not?" 

Robert  was  silent.  Presently  he  turned 
sharply  towards  the  window,  and  stood  look- 
ing out  upon  the  roof-tops  opposite. 

Philippa  remained  standing  by  the  mantel- 
piece. There  was  impatience  in  her  face,  and 
a  certain  indecision.  Once  she  opened  her 
lips  to  speak,  and  refrained.  Finally,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  she  went  to  him  and 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"Surely  this  is  not  jealousy,  Robert?"  she 
said,  plaintively.  "After  all  our  talks  ?  After 
our  mutual  agreement  upon  that  subject? " 

"It's  all  very  well!"  exclaimed  Robert; 
"but  if,  under  —  our  circumstances,  a  woman 
does  n't  know  what  is  due  to  the  man  she  pro- 
fesses to  love,  would  you  have  him  say 
nothing?  " 

"  I  would  have  him  so  trust  the  woman  he 
professes  to  love  that  he  should  feel  jealousy  an 
insult  to  her,"  she  returned,  with  lowered  eyelids. 

Robert  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  when 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  husky. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  began,  "  how 
a  man  feels  when " 


176         The  Day's  Journey 

"  When  a  woman  spends  half  an  hour  in 
giving  good  advice  to  a  boy?"  smiled  Philippa. 
"  Oh,  Robert,  don't  let  us  profane  our  love. 
Do  let  us  keep  vulgar  jealousy  out  of  it.  I 
want  so  much  to  make  it  a  real  inspiration, 
an  ennobling  influence  in  our  lives.  Come, 
Robert !  Be  good." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  pleadingly, 
and  he  turned.  She  looked  very  beautiful, 
with  her  face  upraised  to  his,  and  moved  by 
a  sudden  gust  of  passion,  Robert  flung  his 
arms  round  her  and  kissed  her  white  throat. 

An  hour  later,  however,  in  spite  of  their 
reconciliation,  Robert  was  again  moody  and 
depressed.  He  pushed  his  tea-cup  away  from 
him,  and  began  to  wander  restlessly  about  the 
room,  a  sure  sign  with  him  of  mental  pertur- 
bation. Philippa  lay  back  in  her  low  chair, 
and  watched  him  furtively.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain exasperation  in  her  face  which,  if  he  had 
not  been  too  preoccupied,  Robert  would  have 
found  easily  discernible. 

"  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with  my 
work,"  he  was  saying,  irritably.  "  The  book  's 
not  going  a  bit." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  agreed  Philippa,  with  some- 
what exasperating  calm. 


The  Day's  Journey          177 

"  What 's  the  reason  ?  "  demanded  Robert, 
coming  to  an  abrupt  pause  before  her  chair. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Your  dear 
public  's  tired  of  that  particular  mild  blend, 
I  suppose.  You  must  mix  something  else. 
Give  it  them  stronger." 

Robert  glanced  at  her.  It  struck  him  that 
her  tone  was  not  quite  sympathetic.  Philippa 
had  an  occasional  odd  trick  of  dropping  the 
mystic  for  the  pronouncedly  colloquial  turn 
of  speech.  "You  speak  as  though  I  were  a 
tea  merchant  or  a  tobacconist,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  were  ?  "  she  asked, 
stretching  out  her  hand  for  a  cigarette. 

"  No,"  returned  Robert,  shortly. 

At  times,  also,  Philippa  was  quite  discon- 
certingly materialistic.  He  never  quite  knew 
what  to  make  of  her  at  such  moments.  It 
was  such  a  curious  lapse  from  her  usual  lofty 
standpoint.  She  saw  his  bewilderment,  and 
after  a  moment  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Dear,  I  know  how  it  frets  you  as  an 
artist,  but,  after  all,  even  artists  must  live. 
And  to  do  that  they  must  condescend  to  the 
stupid  multitude.  Why  not  write  a  society 
novel,  Robert?"  She  sat  upright  in  her  chair. 
"  With  lots  of  titles,  you  know " 

"  And  the  women  spiteful  enough,"  put  in 


iy8          The  Day's  Journey 

Robert,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  've  had  that 
advice  once  to-day  —  from  Lady  Wilmot.  I 
scarcely  expected  it  from  you,  Philippa." 

She  rose,  and  began  to  put  the  tea-things 
together. 

"You  are  unreasonable,"  she  began,  coldly, 
after  a  slight  pause.  "  First  you  grumble  be- 
cause your  book  does  n't  suit  the  public,  and 
then  when  I  suggest  something  that  probably 
will,  you  turn  upon  me." 

He  did  not  immediately  reply,  and  when 
he  spoke,  Philippa  recognized  with  a  flash  of 
anger  that  he  had  not  been  attending  to  her 
words. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Cecily 's  been  writing 
a  book  ?  "  he  asked,  suddenly.  "  It 's  to  be 
out  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  ?  "  she  returned,  coldly.  "  What  a  lot 
of  scribblers  there  are  in  the  world,  to  be  sure." 

Robert  felt  annoyed.  He  parted  coldly 
from  Philippa,  and  taking  a  hansom  in  the 
Brompton  road,  drove  to  his  club.  On  the 
stairs  he  met  Travers,  a  friend  of  his.  Travers 
looked  perturbed  and  angry. 

"  Women  are  the  very  deuce !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, in  reply  to  an  interrogation. 

"  I  agree,"  said  Robert,  with  fervor. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

T  ATE    in    the    afternoon    of  the   following 
I  >  Tuesday,    Robert   sat   over   the    fire   in 
his   study,  reading  his  wife's   book. 

He  had  found  it  on  his  writing-table,  when 
he  returned  to  the  flat  soon  after  three  o'clock, 
after  lunching  with  Travers  at  his  club. 

The  sight  of  the  green-covered  volume  with 
Cecily's  name  in  gilt  letters  upon  it  affected 
him  with  an  odd,  unclassified,  but  very  strong 
emotion.  It  was  a  moment  before  he  could 
touch  it.  Then  he  turned  to  the  title-page. 
It  was  empty  of  any  dedication,  but  his  initials 
and  Cecily's,  in  her  handwriting,  stood  in  the 
right-hand  corner.  He  took  up  the  book  hur- 
riedly, possessed  with  a  sudden  burning  curi- 
osity, and  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  began 
to  read.  He  read  straight  on,  and  now  he 
had  almost  reached  the  last  page.  A  few 
moments  later  he  closed  the  book,  and  sat 
looking  down  at  the  cover,  with  unseeing 
eyes.  It  had  been  a  curious  experience.  To 
a  stranger  the  book  would  probably  seem 


i8o         The  Day's  Journey 

impersonal,  if  anything;  rather  unusually  im- 
personal for  a  woman,  perhaps.  To  Robert  it 
was  full  of  Cecily ;  full  of  her  personality ; 
full  of  the  self  which,  in  the  first  months  of 
their  marriage,  she  had  revealed  to  him,  and, 
as  he  divined,  to  him  alone.  It  was  like 
something  lost  and  remembered  in  a  dream ; 
something  so  beautiful  and  intimate  that  only 
in  a  dream  could  its  memory  be  recaptured. 
Very  gently,  as  though  fearing  to  break  the 
spell,  he  laid  the  closed  book  upon  the  table. 
In  the  background  of  consciousness  his  critical 
faculty  was  awake,  slightly  amazed,  and  more 
than  slightly  approving. 

The  book  was  immature,  but  it  had  power, 
it  had  distinction,  it  was  moving.  The  artist 
in  him  rejoiced;  the  man  was  troubled  by 
conflicting  emotions.  There  was  latent  pride, 
there  was  more  than  a  twinge  of  jealousy,  to 
name  only  two  of  them. 

He  rose  abruptly  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  mantelpiece.  It  was  odd  that  for  the  last 
three  hours  he  had  completely  lost  sight  of 
Philippa.  She  had  had  no  existence  beside 
that  fleeting  vision  of  his  wife.  He  thought 
of  her  now  with  a  sort  of  shock,  as  though 
she  were  a  stranger.  Only  yesterday  he  had 
been  torturing  himself  about  the  state  of  her 


The  Day's  Journey          181 

feelings  towards  him.  Did  she  care  for  him 
as  much  as  ever?  Now,  for  the  moment,  at 
least,  it  seemed  not  to  matter. 

He  wanted  to  go  and  speak  to  Cecily,  and 
remembered  with  an  inexplicable  pang  how 
long  it  was  since  they  had  exchanged  more 
than  a  few  conventional  words.  Sometimes 
he  wondered  whether  she  suspected  his  rela- 
tions with  Philippa ;  but  long  ago  he  had 
persuaded  himself  that,  even  if  she  did,  it 
was  no  matter,  since  she  had  ceased  to  care 
about  him.  She  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
but,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  in  the  com- 
pany of  "  a  whole  crowd  of  people."  This  he 
gathered  from  the  faint  murmur  of  talk  which 
reached  his  study.  He  wondered  whether 

Mayne  was  there.  He  wondered  whether 

But  this  was  a  speculation  which  had  been 
more  or  less  present  to  his  mind  in  a  scarcely 
acknowledged  form  for  more  than  a  year, 
though  never  till  to-day  had  it  made  his  face 
change  as  it  changed  now.  He  began  to 
pace  the  room. 

Would  those  chattering  fools  never  go  ? 
Cecily  was  always  surrounded  by  them !  And 
he  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  liked  her  book. 

He  had  worked  himself  into  a  fever  of  im- 
patience before  the  hall  door  closed  for  the 


1 82          The  Day's  Journey 

last  time.  Then,  at  last,  hearing  no  sound 
from  the  next  room,  he  went  in. 

The  door  was  #  little  ajar  and  Cecily,  who 
was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  did  not 
notice  his  entrance.  It  had  grown  dusk,  but 
the  lamps  were  not  yet  brought  in,  and  the 
firelight  fell  full  upon  her  face  as  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair.  Robert  remembered  Lady  Wil- 
mot's  remark  —  "  She  's  looking  quite  pretty 
again."  It  was  long  since  he  had  noticed  Cecily's 
looks,  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  surprise  that 
he  admitted  the  justice  of  his  godmother's 
remark.  He  had  thought  Cecily  had  grown 
faded.  She  did  not  look  faded  now ;  and 
she  was  charmingly  dressed.  Standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  door,  Robert  watched  her  a 
moment.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire, 
and  a  little  smile  played  about  her  lips.  He 
wondered  what  she  was  thinking  about,  and 
an  unexpected  stab  of  jealousy  smote  him,  to 
realize  that  he  did  n't  know,  that  he  might 
not  ask. 

He  moved  forward  and  Cecily,  rather  star- 
tled, raised  her  head.  She  rose  with  a  kind 
of  embarrassment  at  the  sight  of  him  and 
stood  waiting  by  the  mantelpiece  as  he  came 
near. 

"  I  Ve  read  your  book,"  he  began. 


The  Day's  Journey         183 

She  flushed  nervously. 

"Already?  "  she  asked,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes.  I  read  it  at  a  sitting."  He  paused. 
"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  like  it.  I  like  it 

more  than  I  can "  Again  he  stopped,  and 

Cecily  looked  at  him,  surprised  and  touched. 
Robert,  who  was  always  so  fluent !  That 
Robert  should  stammer  and  hesitate  meant 
much. 

Impulsively  she  put  out  her  hand.  "  Really  ? 
I  'm  so  glad,"  she  began,  softly. 

"  Mr.  Mayne,"  said  the  maid's  voice  sud- 
denly, and  Robert  dropped  the  hand  he  had 
the  previous  moment  eagerly  taken. 

"  That  you,  Mayne  ?  You  '11  excuse  me  —  I 
must  get  to  work,"  he  said,  making  towards 
the  door  at  which  Mayne  had  just  entered. 

He  had  seen  his  wife's  eyes  go  past  him  and 
brighten  as  they  fell  upon  her  visitor,  and  he 
closed  his  study  door  with  a  bang. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  weeks  that  followed  were  difficult 
weeks  for  Robert.  Cecily's  book  was  a 
success  in  so  far  that  from  the  artist's  stand- 
point it  attracted  just  the  right  sort  of  atten- 
tion. It  was  praised  by  just  the  half-dozen 
critics  whose  opinion  Robert  held  to  be  valu- 
able ;  the  critics  whose  good  opinion  he  had 
secretly  never  ceased  to  covet,  even  while  he 
consciously  strayed  into  the  broad  path  which 
leads  to  popular  success  and  literary  de- 
struction. 

But  in  her  own  immediate  circle,  comprising 
as  it  did  many  people  whose  chief  interests 
were  connected  with  the  world  of  books, 
Cecily's  success  was  immediate  and  strikingly 
apparent.  Already  popular  as  a  charming  as 
well  as  a  pretty  woman,  it  needed  only  the 
added  distinction  of  having  written  a  novel  that 
was  discussed  at  length  in  the  Quarterlies  to 
make  her  openly  courted.  Robert  never  saw 
her  nowadays.  It  had  come  to  be  tacitly 
understood  that  "the  Kingslakes  went  their 


The  Day's  Journey         185 

separate  ways,"  and  invitations  in  which  he  was 
not  included  were  showered  upon  his  wife. 
The  first  party  for  several  weeks  to  which  they 
went  together  was  one  given  in  June  by  Lady 
Wilmot. 

At  half-past  nine,  Robert  stood  waiting  in 
the  hall  for  his  wife.  In  a  few  minutes  her 
bedroom  door  opened  and  she  came  out,  fol- 
lowed by  a  maid  who  held  her  evening  cloak 
ready . 

Robert  regarded  her  critically.  She  wore  a 
white  gown,  which  he,  a  connoisseur  of  women's 
dress,  thoroughly  approved.  Moreover,  as  he 
could  not  fail  to  see,  it  was  extraordinarily  be- 
coming. Her  dark  hair  looked  very  soft  and 
cloudy,  the  color  in  her  cheeks  was  faint  and 
delicate  as  a  wild  rose.  He  looked  at  her, 
and  saw  she  was  a  beautiful  woman. 

"  Do  I  look  nice  ? "  she  asked,  smiling. 
Oddly  enough  Robert  felt  depressed  that  the 
smile  was  so  cordial. 

"Very,"  he  returned,  and  did  not  speak 
again  till  they  were  in  the  hansom  that  the  hall 
porter  had  called.  Even  then  it  was  she  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"  You  look  rather  tired,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  him.  "Are  you?  " 

"Not    tired.       Beastly    depressed."       He 


i86          The  Day's  Journey 

spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  child  who  needs  com- 
fort, a  tone  which  Cecily  knew  well.  It  never 
failed  to  move  her. 

"  Things  are  n't  going  very  well  just  now  ?  " 
she  asked,  gently.  "It  's  frightfully  worrying 
while  it  lasts,  is  n't  it  ?  But  it  won't  last. 
Nothing  lasts.  Why,  next  year,  I  shall  be 
down  there," — she  indicated  infinite  depth, — 
"  and  you,  towering  on  pinnacles  above  me  !  " 

"Oh,  no!"  returned  Robert,  bitterly. 
X{  You  've  come  to  stay." 

Cecily  shrank  back  a  little  into  the  corner 
of  the  cab.  When  she  replied,  her  voice 
trembled. 

"  You  speak  almost  as  though  you  were 
sorry,"  she  said.  "  And  that  makes  me  miser- 
able. There 's  no  comparison  between  your 
best  work  and  mine,  Robert  —  but  there  's  also 
.no  accounting  for  what  will  succeed." 

Robert  felt  a  violent  increase  of  the  irrita- 
tion that  possessed  him — an  irritation  which 
had  its  source  in  many  complex,  undefined 
emotions. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  began,  with  a  con- 
temptuous laugh,  "that  's  quite  immaterial. 
Surely,  my  dear  Cecily,  you  can't  imagine  that 
I  'm  jealous  of  this  little  boom  of  yours  ?  I 
don't  take  that  seriously." 


The  Day's  Journey          187 

She  was  stung  by  his  tone.  "  Am  I  to  un- 
derstand that  there  's  something  you  do?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Robert,  suddenly.  "  I 
object  to  your  intimacy  with  Mayne."  The 
words  broke  from  him,  apparently  without 
his  own  volition.  He  was  startled  at  their 
sound. 

For  a  long  moment  there  was  silence. 

"  On  what  grounds  ?  "  inquired  Cecily  at 
last,  in  the  same  icy  tone. 

"  On  the  grounds  that  people  are  talking  — 
and  that  you  are  my  wife." 

She  looked  full  at  him  and  he  felt,  rather 
than  saw,  the  scorn  in  her  face.  "  Do  you 
remember,"  she  said  at  last,  "  my  surprise 
when,  without  consulting  me,  you  asked  Dick 
Mayne  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  When  I  trusted  my  wife,"  he  began,  feel- 
ing that  the  confidence  was  fading  out  of  his 
voice.  "  I  thought  she  would  have  sufficient 
regard  for  my " 

His  words  were  cut  short  by  her  bitter 
laugh. 

"  Oh,  Robert !  Are  you  really  going  to 
talk  about  your  honor  ?  That  will  be  very 
funny." 

A  fury,  fanned  to  white  heat  by  the  mock- 
ery of  her  tone,  seized  Robert.  While  he  was 


i88          The  Day's  Journey 

struggling  for  words  the  hansom  drew  up  be- 
fore Lady  Wilmot's  door,  and  without  his  aid 
Cecily  alighted  and  moved  before  him  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  house. 

Lady  Wilmot's  big  drawing-room  was  filled 
to  overflowing  when  the  Kingslakes  entered. 
Their  hostess  pounced  at  once  upon  Cecily, 
and  extended  a  casual  hand  to  her  husband. 

"  Here  you  are,  my  dear  !  I  thought  you 
were  never  coming !  There  are  a  hundred 
people  languishing  for  a  sight  of  you.  Here  's 
Mr.  Fairholt-Graeme.  I  introduce  him  first, 
because  his  is  a  bad  case,  but  he  must  n't 
monopolize  you  long." 

Cecily  smiled  as  a  tall,  grave-looking  man 
took  her  hand  with  an  air  of  homage,  and  in 
a  few  moments  she  was  surrounded  by  a  little 
knot  of  men  and  women,  all  eager  for  a  word 
with  her. 

Robert  glanced  round  the  room  in  search 
of  Philippa.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  at 
last,  on  the  broad  landing  outside  the  drawing- 
room.  Some  man  was  bending  over  her.  Im- 
patiently Robert  struggled  towards  the  door  to 
see  who  it  was,  and  presently  discovered,  as  he 
suspected,  Nevern. 

He  clenched    his   hands.      How   he  hated 


The  Day's  Journey          189 

this  kind  of  thing;  hated  the  glaring  lights, 
the  parrot  chatter,  the  crush,  the  heat,  the 
sight  of  familiar  faces.  Some  of  them  were 
smiling  invitations,  and  he  had  to  go  and 
exchange  badinage ;  to  listen  to  repeated  con- 
gratulations on  Cecily's  success  ;  to  invent  fresh 
sentences  to  express  his  rapture.  Above  the 
heads  of  the  crowd,  presently,  he  saw  Mayne, 
and  with  the  recognition  of  his  face,  came  an 
intolerable  stab  of  anger,  of  jealousy.  He 
watched;  saw  him  steadily  draw  near  to 
Cecily,  saw  him  wait  quietly,  without  im- 
patience, till  he  could  speak  to  her;  saw 
him  move  aside  with  her  to  an  open  win- 
dow, where  they  stood  together  talking. 

In  the  meantime,  unnoticed  by  him,  Philippa 
was  casting  uneasy  glances  in  his  direction. 
From  her  seat  on  the  landing,  she  could  watch 
his  face  as  he  leaned  in  the  doorway  of  the 
drawing-room,  carrying  on  a  desultory  con- 
versation with  a  pretty,  fluffy-haired  woman, 
who  looked  more  than  a  little  bored. 

Robert's  moods,  as  indicated  by  his  expres- 
sion, were  too  well  known  to  Philippa  to 
prevent  her  from  misreading  danger  signals. 
She  knew  that  she  must  get  rid  of  Nevern. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  go,  Nigel,"  she 
murmured,  caressingly.  "  Yes,  dear,  please, 


190  The  Day's  Journey 

I  wish  it.  You  have  been  talking  to  me 
too  long." 

Nevern  was  restive.  "  Why  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered. "  Why  should  n't  every  one  know  ? 
I  'm  so  tired  of  all  this " 

"  I  do  so  want  to  keep  our  exquisite  se- 
cret a  little  longer,"  she  interrupted,  hurriedly. 
"  It 's  always  a  profanation  when  it  is  shared 
by  the  vulgar  world.  Besides,  you  promised, 
Nigel !  " 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  sigh.  "  Yes, 
I  know.  But  how  long  is  it  to  go  on  like 
this  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  Be  patient  a  little 
longer.  Now  let 's  go  into  the  room,  then 
I  '11  stop  and  speak  to  some  one  I  know,  and 
you  can  leave  me." 

"  When  may  I  come  ?  "  urged  Nevern  in 
the  same  low  tone  as  she  rose. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  '11  write,"  she  told  him, 
hurriedly,  with  Robert's  eyes  upon  her. 

They  took  the  few  steps  towards  the 
drawing-room  together,  and  taking  care  to 
make  her  dismissal  of  Nevern  as  casual  as 
possible,  as  well  as  to  be  in  full  view  of 
Robert  when  it  was  achieved,  she  gave  both 
hands  to  Mrs.  Stanley  Garth,  the  distin- 
guished theosophist.  Philippa's  attitude,  as 


The  Day's  Journey  191 

well  as  her  rapid  glance  in  passing,  suggested 
that  his  moment  had  come.  Robert  allowed 
it  to  pass.  Five  minutes  later  she  saw  him 
shake  hands  with  their  hostess,  and  overheard 
the  beginning  of  his  excuses  for  leavetaking. 

"  But  you  cant  go  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Wil- 
mot.  "  All  nonsense  about  a  sick  friend.  I 
don't  believe  in  him.  Besides,  you  're  not 
going  to  desert  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Lady  Luton  has  very  kindly  offered  to 
drive  her  home,"  said  Robert.  "  She  lives 
almost  next  door,  you  know." 

"I  believe  it's  nothing  but  temper!"  de- 
clared his  hostess,  jovially.  "  You  're  rather  out 
of  it  nowadays,  are  n't  you  ?  When  a  man  has 
a  brilliant  wife  he  must  look  to  his  laurels,  eh  ? 
'Pon  my  word,  Robert,  she 's  quite  cut  you 
out.  Every  one 's  talking  about  her  book. 
Look  at  them  now,"  she  jerked  her  head  back 
towards  the  room  —  "all  swinging  incense. 
Why,  you  wicked  creature,  you  never  even 
told  me  she  wrote.  I  believe  you  were 
jealous ! " 

She  was  walking  with  him  towards  the  head 
of  the  stairs  while  she  chattered.  She  was  hit- 
ting a  little  at  random,  but  it  amused  ^ier  to 
discover  when  the  blows  were  felt.  To  do 
Lady  Wilmot  justice,  her  malice  was  not 


192  The  Day's  Journey 

exclusively  directed  against  her  own  sex.  To 
exasperate  a  man  afforded  her  on  the  whole 
more  entertainment  than  she  would  have  de- 
rived had  her  victim  been  feminine.  "  A 
man's  colossal  vanity  is  so  tempting,"  she 
frequently  observed.  "  I  long  to  overthrow 
it.  But  then,  I  always  had  a  taste  for  the 
impossible." 

Despite  his  utmost  endeavors  Robert  could 
not  make  his  rejoinders  sound  other  than  a 
trifle  constrained. 

"  I  admit  I  never  took  Cecily's  work  very 
seriously,"  he  said.  "  That  was  my  mistake. 
She  never  talked  about  it  much  herself,  and 
—  well,  somehow  one  never  thinks  of  one's 
wife  as  a  literary  woman.  But,  my  dear  lady  ! 
jealous  of  her  ?  What  an  idea  ! " 

"  Rather  a  good  idea,  eh  ?  I  did  n't  know 
her  well  before  she  married,  and  you  managed 
to  give  me  quite  a  wrong  impression  of  her, 
anyhow.  I  always  pictured  her  a  demure 
little  country  mouse,  with  scarcely  a  squeak  in 
her.  Look  at  her  now  !  " 

She  put  up  her  lorgnette.  The  rooms  had 
thinned  a  little,  and  through  the  archway  of 
the  door  they  could  both  see  Cecily,  who,  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  of  people,  was  talking 
animatedly. 


The  Day's  Journey          193 

"  That 's  La  Roche  leaning  over  the  sofa," 
said  Lady  Wilmot.  "  You  know  La  Roche  ? 
He's  the  latest  dramatic  critic  in  Paris.  Sup- 
posed to  be  very  brilliant,  I  hear.  Graeme 
introduced  him,  I  imagine.  Graeme's  a  tre- 
mendous admirer.  You  see  he  does  n't  leave 
the  field  to  La  Roche,  in  spite  of  the  introduc- 
tion. And  there's  Mayne,  of  course." 

"  Why  c  of  course  '  ?  "  inquired  Robert, 
quickly.  Lady  Wilmot  assumed  an  innocent 
expression. 

"  Why  not  ?  Is  n't  he  your  great  friend,  as 
well  as  Cecily's? " 

"Certainly,"  was  Robert's  immediate  reply. 

"  He  seems  to  be  exploring  London  drawing- 
rooms  instead  of  jungles,  nowadays,"  she 
continued.  "  Well,  it 's  a  fine  field,  and  the 
animals  are  even  more  dangerous  !  " 

"  Good-bye,  I  must  really  go,"  said  Robert 
again,  putting  out  his  hand. 

"  Must  you  ?  Nonsense,"  she  returned, 
ignoring  it.  "  I  'm  so  enjoying  this  little  chat. 
I  scarcely  ever  see  you  now.  How  does 
Philippa  Burton  answer  as  a  secretary  ? " 
There  was  a  gleam  of  interested  amusement 
in  her  eyes  as  she  put  the  question. 

"  Excellently,  thank  you." 

Lady  Wilmot  put  her  head  on  one  side  and 
13 


194         The  Day's  Journey 

levelled  her  lorgnette  at  Philippa.  "  Does  n't 
look  much  like  a  secretary,  does  she?  Her 
hair  always  reminds  me  of  a  crimped  hearth- 
rug. And  how  on  earth  does  she  manage 
never  to  forget  that  stricken-deer  expression 
about  the  eyes?  It's  very  effective,  though. 
I  don't  wonder  that  when  she  thinks  of  her 
son  poor  old  Mrs. "  She  checked  her- 
self abruptly.  "  Oh,  I  forgot.  I  promised 
not  to  say  a  word  about  that." 

"  About  what  ? "  asked  Robert,  trying  to 
conceal  his  anxiety. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  talk  too  much.  But  Philippa  's  a 
precious  little  humbug,  you  know.  Only  you 
men  are  such  gabies."  Her  bright  eyes  sought 
his  face  inquisitively.  "  Did  you  see  her  doing 
the  high  and  noble  with  Sam  Nevern  to-night  ? 
I  did  n't  know  how  to  contain  myself! " 

"  I  thought  his  name  was  Nigel  ?  " 

"  Samuel,  my  dear.  Nigel  for  poetic  pur- 
poses. I  've  known  his  family  for  years. 
Most  respectable.  Old  Nevern  made  a  lot 
of  money  in  soap  or  candles,  I  forget  which  — 
both,  perhaps.  Sammy  will  come  in  for  a 
nice  little  fortune,  so  he  can  afford  to  write 
bad  poetry.  Not  really  going?  How  tire- 
some of  you." 


The  Day's  Journey          195 

Robert  escaped  into  the  sweet  night  air  with 
a  sense  of  unutterable  relief.  The  Park  gates 
were  still  open,  and  he  turned  into  the  broad 
walk,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  walked  on  be- 
tween the  trees  which  hung  motionless  above 
his  head.  His  brain  was  whirling,  but  by  an 
effort  of  will  he  retraced  the  events  of  the 
evening,  beginning  with  his  drive  to  Lancaster 
Gate  with  Cecily.  His  pride  shrank  from  ad- 
mitting that  he  had  been  wrong,  while  his 
sense  of  justice  accused  him.  Cecily's  words 
came  back  to  him. 

"  Do  you  remember  my  surprise  when  you 
asked  Dick  Mayne  to  the  house  ?  " 

It  was  true,  —  that,  and  more  than  that. 
He  winced  as  he  thought  of  all  that  had  been 
at  least  tacitly  included  in  his  invitation  to 
the  man  whose  presence  he  now  resented. 
He  looked  back  upon  it  as  one  recalls  a  fit 
of  half-remembered  delirium. 

How  madly,  in  those  days,  he  had  loved 
Philippa !  How  she  had  filled  for  him  heaven 
and  earth,  so  that  he  would  have  risked  any- 
thing, stooped  to  any  baseness,  to  make  her 
as  fully  his  as  he  longed  to  make  her !  And 
now?  He  scarcely  knew  whether  he  loved 
her  at  all.  He  had  been  enraged  at  the  sight 
of  Nevern,  certainly,  but  was  it  because  he 


196         The  Day's  Journey 

loved  her  ?  Was  n't  it  rather  blind  resent- 
ment against  the  suspicion  of  betrayal,  by 
Philippa  at  least,  since  Cecily  no  longer 
cared ;  a  mad  determination  not  to  be  aban- 
doned, cast  off  by  both  women  ?  He  felt  like 
a  gambler  who  always  loses,  while  his  fellow- 
gamblers  have  all  the  luck.  Lady  Wilmot's 
chatter  beat  through  his  brain  incessantly. 
"  Mayne,  of  course."  So  people  were  really 
talking !  He  raged  to  know  with  how  much 
truth.  Then  came  the  remembrance  of  her 
incessant  harping  upon  his  wife's  success,  and 
its  effect  upon  his  vanity.  Shame  at  his  own 
lack  of  generosity  struggled  in  vain  with  the 
knowledge  that  Lady  Wilmot  was  right.  With 
whatever  injustice,  with  whatever  lack  of  gen- 
erosity, he  did  resent  it,  even  though  the  re- 
sentment was  touched  with  admiration  and  an 
odd  sort  of  pride.  Robert  had  never  achieved 
self-analysis  quite  so  free  from  self-deception, 
as  during  that  short  walk  under  the  dreaming 
trees. 

The  keeper  on  the  other  side  of  the  Park 
was  waiting  to  shut  the  gate  as  he  reached 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  a  glance  at  the  clock 
showed  him  that  it  wanted  a  minute  to  twelve. 
Mechanically,  seeing  nothing,  he  walked  down 
Grosvenor  Road,  and  on  into  Victoria  Street, 


The  Day's  Journey          197 

where,  though  the  omnibuses  had  ceased  to 
run,  cabs  still  wandered,  or  passed  one  another 
at  full  speed,  while  an  occasional  motor-car  shot 
amongst  them.  As  he  turned  out  of  the  street 
into  the  stillness  of  Carlisle  Place,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  Cathedral  tower,  majestic  against  the 
night  sky  sown  with  stars.  Like  Cecily,  he 
felt  its  quietude,  but  only  as  something  which 
accentuated  the  restless,  uneasy  tumult  of  his 
thoughts.  Upstairs,  when  he  reached  the 
flat,  the  light  was  burning  in  the  hall.  Cecily 
had  not  returned.  He  felt  vaguely  relieved 
as  he  went  straight  to  his  room  and  shut  the 
door. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

BY  the  next  morning  Robert  had  deter- 
mined to  leave  town  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  take  a  holiday.  He  felt  ill  and  nervous ; 
his  work  was  suffering ;  he  would  take  advan- 
tage of  a  standing  invitation  from  some  friends 
at  Maidenhead.  A  fortnight's  idling  on  the 
river  would  do  him  no  harm,  and  relieve  him 
from  the  necessity  of  meeting  either  his  wife 
or  Philippa.  Quite  early,  he  despatched  two 
telegrams,  and  leaving  a  note  for  Cecily,  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Paddington  before  eleven 
o'clock.  Cecily  received  the  curt  intimation 
of  his  departure  with  a  sense  of  great  relief. 
She  was  bitterly  angry.  Through  a  sleepless 
night  she  had  followed  again  and  again,  with 
growing  contempt,  all  the  links  in  the  chain 
of  events  which  had  preceded  Robert's  out- 
burst of  the  previous  evening.  Her  anger 
burned  the  more  fiercely  with  the  memory  of 
the  impulse  of  tenderness  which  her  husband's 
words  had  quenched.  She  had  thought  her- 
self so  indifferent,  she  had  so  trained  herself  to 


The  Day's  Journey          199 

forget,  to  ignore  him,  that  it  was  with  a  sort 
of  wonder  she  had  felt  her  heart  stirred  lately 
by  the  sight  of  his  obvious  depression.  Often 
she  had  longed  to  try  to  comfort  him,  and 
had  found  herself  scornfully  wondering  what 
Philippa  was  about,  to  be  unable  to  render  this 
first  aid  to  the  wounded.  She  had  been  by  no 
means  displeased  to  find  that  Philippa  did  not 
understand  him. 

Now  all  her  pity  for  him  was  forgotten  in 
indignation.  All  night  she  had  been  anticipat- 
ing their  meeting  and  the  inevitable  renewal 
of  their  broken  conversation.  What  would  be 
its  result?  And  now,  for  the  present  at  least, 
she  might  leave  that  consideration.  Rose 
Summers  was  coming  for  a  fortnight's  visit. 
There  was  comfort  in  the  thought  that  she 
should  have  her  to  herself. 

"  Well,  lioness  ! "  was  her  friend's  greeting 
when  she  arrived  at  the  well-chosen  tea-hour. 
She  kissed  Cecily  and  held  her  at  arm's 
length,  nodding  approval.  "A  very  well- 
favored  animal,"  she  remarked.  "  I  con- 
gratulate you,  my  dear." 

Cecily  laughed.  "  I  Ve  taken  great  pains 
with  the  grooming,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
groom  lionesses,  by  the  way  ?  " 


200         The  Day's  Journey 

"  For  drawing-room  use,  certainly.  In  your 
case  with  admirable  result.  Now,  for  heaven's 
sake,  give  me  some  tea  and  tell  me  things." 

Cecily  complied  with  both  requests,  though 
to  the  latter  she  did  not  respond  as  thoroughly 
as  her  cousin  wished.  Except  for  an  occasional 
half-hour  now  and  then,  they  had  not  met  for 
a  year,  and  Rose  was  amazed  at  the  change  in 
Cecily.  She  struck  her  as  looking  prettier 
than  she  had  been  even  in  her  early  girlhood, 
but  so  different  from  that  girlish  Cecily  that  it 
was  difficult  to  think  of  the  two  individuals  as 
in  any  way  related.  Cecily  was  one  of  those 
women  who  develop  late,  in  intellect,  in  all 
that  makes  personality,  even,  under  favorable 
circumstances,  in  beauty.  At  twenty-five  she 
had  been  still  immature.  Now,  at  thirty-two, 
she  gave  the  impression  of  a  woman  self- 
possessed,  if  gracious  and  charming  in  manner; 
a  woman  who  had  looked  close  at  life,  and  was 
under  no  illusions  with  regard  to  it. 

As  Rose  listened  to  her,  she  gained  the 
impression  of  a  full  and  varied  existence,  full 
of  interest,  at  least,  if  not  of  happiness.  Of 
Mayne,  Cecily  spoke  quite  frankly.  She  saw 
much  of  him.  She  owed  him  much  —  "  almost 
everything,  in  fact."  Of  her  husband,  though 
Rose  waited,  she  spoke  not  at  all,  beyond  a 


201 

mention  of  the  fact  that  he  had  gone  into  the 
country  for  a  week  or  two. 

"  I  did  n't  ask  any  one  to  dinner,"  Cecily 
said.  "  I  thought  we  'd  be  alone  the  first 
evening  —  and  not  go  out  anywhere." 

"It's  a  change  for  you  to  be  quiet,  I  see," 
remarked  Rose. 

Cecily  laughed.  "  Yes,"  she  admitted. 
"  There 's  always  some  one  here  —  or  else  I  'm 
out." 

"A  great  change  from  Sheepcote?  " 

"  Thank  God  !  yes  —  in  every  way." 

The  immediate  reply  was  fervent,  and  Rose 
wondered,  though  at  the  time  she  said  nothing. 
It  was  only  after  dinner,  when  they  sat  by  the 
open  window  in  the  drawing-room,  that  she 
deliberately  introduced  the  subject  of  her 
speculations. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  sat  by 
the  window  and  talked?"  she  said. 

Cecily  was  smoking.  She  broke  off  the  ash 
of  her  cigarette  against  the  window-sill  before 
she  replied. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  I  was  in  hell  then." 

"  And  now  ?  " 

"  Now  I  'm  out  of  it." 

Rose  paused  a  moment.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  quiet  thankfulness  of  the  tone. 


202          The  Day's  Journey 

"  And  Robert  ? "  she  ventured. 

"I  know  nothing  about  Robert  —  or  rather, 
to  be  strictly  truthful,  I  did  n't  till  last  night." 
She  laughed  a  little.  "  And  then  I  made  a 
discovery." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  find  that  Robert  is,  or  pretends  to  be, 
jealous  of  Dick  Mayne." 

Almost  imperceptibly,  Rose  started. 

"  Does  that  mean  that ?  " 

Cecily  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Is  she  still  his  secretary  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"But ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Cecily.  "  I  don't 
think  it  matters." 

Mrs.  Summers  waited  a  few  moments. 

"  Cecily,"  she  said  at  last,  "  are  you  sincere  ? 
Are  you  as  indifferent  as  that  ?  " 

"If  you  mean  with  regard  to  that,  or  any 
other  woman  —  yes." 

"  You  don't  care  for  him  ?  not  any  more  at 
all  ?  " 

Cecily  hesitated,  then  sighed  rather  wearily. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  not  —  but  — 
I  don't  know.  He 's  made  me  despise  him  ; 
he 's  robbed  me  of  every  illusion  about  him  ;  I 
see  him,  and  have  long  seen  him — just  as  he 


The  Day's  Journey         203 

is.  Now  he  has  insulted  me  in  a  way  that 's  so 

ludicrously  unjust  that  I "  She  laughed 

again.  "  That 's  all  one  can  do  —  laugh.  And 
yet "  She  stopped. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Rose  again. 

"  Yet  I  feel  bound  to  him,"  declared  Cecily, 
slowly.  "  Not  in  any  sort  of  legal  way,  of 
course,  but  just  so  that  I  can't  help  myself. 
When  he  looks  tired,  or  worried,  or  disap- 
pointed—  and  he  so  often  looks  all  of  them 
—  my  heart  aches.  I  want  to  comfort  him. 
It's  just  as  though  he  were  my  child,  you 
know,  my  silly,  naughty  little  boy."  She 
smiled  to  herself,  quietly. 

" Cis ! "  exclaimed  Rose,  involuntarily.  "How 
you  have  grown  up  !  " 

"  Grown  up  ?  I  have  grown  old.  Hun- 
dreds of  years  old."  The  last  words  were 
uttered  as  though  to  herself.  For  some  time 
neither  of  them  spoke. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Dick  ? " 
asked  Rose  at  last. 

Cecily  turned  her  head  in  surprise.  "  Do 
about  him  ? " 

"  People  are  talking,  you  know.  I  heard  it 
last  year  when  I  was  in  town,  and,  indirectly, 
once  or  twice  since." 

"  Are    you    thinking  of  Robert  ?  "     There 


204         The  Day's  Journey 

was  a  note   of  contemptuous    amusement   in 
her  voice. 

"  Not  at  all.     Of  you." 

"  Then  don't  trouble,  dear.  People  will 
continue  to  talk.  But  as  long  as  I  don't 
fizzle  out,  they  '11  also  continue  to  ask  me  to 
their  parties." 

"  And  is  there  no  danger  —  of  anything 
else  ? "  persisted  Rose. 

"  Of  my  falling  in  love  with  Dick,  you 
mean?  Not  the  slightest." 

"  Then  you  would  n't  mind  if  he  went  oflF 
exploring  again  ? " 

Cecily  started.  "  Yes,  I  should,"  she 
returned,  quickly.  "I  couldn't  bear  it." 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  She  looked  at  her  friend  in 
bewilderment.  "  Because  of  everything.  Be- 
cause of Why,  he  's  made  everything 

possible.  My  book  —  all  the  people  I  've 
got  to  know.  I  was  all  to  pieces  when  Dick 
came  home.  He  put  me  together  again,  and 
stood  me  on  my  two  feet,  and " 

"And  yet  you  are  in  no  danger." 

Cecily  looked  at  her  a  full  moment  without 
speaking,  and  it  was  Rose  who  again  broke 
the  silence. 

"  My  dear,  when  a  woman  relies  on  a  man 


The  Day's  Journey         205 

like  that,  when  she  can't  picture  life  without 
him,  there  is  always  danger." 

"  If  you  only  knew,"  began  Cecily,  leaning 
forward  and  speaking  impressively,  "  if  you 
only  knew  how  thankful  I  am  to  be  out  of 
love.  To  have  peace,  to  have  freedom,  to 
have  found  myself  again.  It 's  just  what  I 
said.  It's  just  as  though  I  had  stepped  out 
of  hell,  to  find  the  blue  sky  over  my  head, 
and  the  grass  underfoot,  and  the  flowers  every- 
where, all  the  dear,  beautiful,  natural  things  — 
that  never  hurt  one." 

"  I  know,"  said  Rose.  "  But  that 's  just  a 
phase,  Cis  —  a  reaction.  Don't  think  you're 
done  with  love  because  you  dread  it.  You  're 
young.  You  have  tremendous  vitality.  Look 
at  yourself  now  in  the  glass,  and  think  what 
you  were  two  years  ago.  You  're  not  the 
sort  of  woman  for  whom  things  are  very 
easily  over." 

"  And  even  so,"  interrupted  Cecily,  passion- 
ately, "granted  that  what  you  say  is  true, 
would  you  have  me  give  up  Dick's  friend- 
ship ?  —  a  friendship  which  was  forced  upon 
me  by  my  husband,  for  a  reason  which  he  has 
since  made  sufficiently  obvious  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  you  completely  realize  the 
situation,  that's  all,"  returned  Rose,  calmly. 


206          The  Day's  Journey 

"  After  that,  I  'm  quite  content  to  leave  it 
with  you.  What  I  can't  stand,  is  the  silly 
way  in  which  people  deceive  themselves,  and 
then  stand  in  amazement,  or  rend  heaven 
with  their  cries,  when  their  celestial  palaces, 
whose  foundation  a  fool  might  have  seen  to 
be  rotten,  come  tumbling  about  their  ears. 
Do  what  you  choose  as  long  as  you  know 
you're  doing  it,  is  what  I  would  say  to  any 
but  the  congenital  idiot." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then 
Cecily  laughed. 

"  I  like  you  when  you  turn  on  the  vinegar 
and  vitriol,"  she  said.  "  Have  another 
cigarette  ? " 


CHAPTER   XIX 

FOR  some  considerable  time  past,  the  plas- 
tic heart  of  Philippa  had  been  undergoing 
its  periodical  regeneration.  It  now  yearned 
in  all  sincerity  for  the  domestic  life.  Nigel's 
devotion  was  so  beautiful ;  his  attitude  of 
reverential  adoration  was  so  supremely  right 
and  touching.  It  was  the  forever  profoundly 
necessary  and  inevitable  attitude  of  the  eternal 
man  towards  the  eternal  woman.  At  this  time 
she  thought  and  talked  much  about  the  sacred 
name  of  "  wife."  So  intense  was  her  conviction 
that  the  true  meaning  of  life  lay  in  the  sacra- 
mental view  of  marriage,  that  Robert  and  his 
claims  sank  into  the  background  of  her  con- 
sciousness. In  her  heart,  which  she  pictured 
as  a  sort  of  solemn  temple  of  purity,  Nigel 
was  radiantly  enthroned.  Robert  and  his 
salary  were  but  the  steps  to  the  altar,  neces- 
sary steps,  for  her  eager  feet  were  still  shack- 
led by  the  weight  of  debts ;  by  still  more 
embarrassing  encumbrances  belonging  to  the 
old  life,  when  she  still  sat  in  darkness,  and 


208          The  Day's  Journey 

knew  not  the  light.  For  this  reason,  though 
Philippa  strove  to  look  upon  her  obligation 
as  a  penitential  discipline,  it  was  still  necessary 
to  be  "  nice  to  Robert."  As  yet  she  could 
not  afford  to  break  to  him,  however  sorrow- 
fully, that  their  paths  must  in  future  diverge ; 
hers  towards  the  stars,  and  his  —  well,  in  fact, 
wherever  he  pleased.  She  was  no  longer  par- 
ticularly interested  in  Robert's  path.  It  had 
ceased  to  concern  her.  It  was,  however,  of 
him  she  was  thinking  as  she  walked  towards 
Westminster  one  morning,  on  her  way  to  her 
secretarial  duties. 

Poor  Robert !  But  he  had  been  very  dis- 
appointing. In  him  she  had  not  found  the 
satisfaction  of  those  higher  intellectual  and 
spiritual  needs  for  which  chiefly,  of  course, 
she  had  joined  her  life  —  for  a  certain  time  — 
with  his.  In  brooding  over  this  regrettable 
fact,  Philippa  honestly  lost  sight,  for  the  mo- 
ment, of  any  tangible  advantage  which  her 
friendship  with  him  continued  to  involve. 
Her  impulse  was  to  sever  the  connection  at 
once.  Then  the  memory  of  pressing  money 
difficulties  brought  her  back  with  a  shock  to 
actualities,  and  the  realization  that  with  how- 
ever generous  a  sum  coming  in  every  quarter, 
it  would  take  many  months  of  plain  living  and 


The  Day's  Journey         209 

rigorous  saving  to  free  herself —  for  Nigel. 
There  was  nothing  for  it,  then.  She  must 
stifle  aspirations,  quiet  the  beating  of  her 
wings,  and  continue  to  draw  her  salary.  She 
sighed.  Robert  was  becoming  very  trying. 
His  fortnight's  holiday  had  been  a  great  relief 
to  her.  It  had  enabled  her,  for  one  thing, 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  Nigel,  and  thus  to 
strengthen  and  confirm  her  new  attitude 
towards  "  life  at  its  worthiest,"  as  she  now 
expressed  her  emotions  concerning  her  future 
union  with  the  poet. 

This  was  the  first  morning  after  Robert's 
return ;  it  was  in  obedience  to  a  note  received 
from  him  the  preceding  evening  that  she  was 
now  on  her  way  to  Westminster  to  resume 
duties  and  to  assume  emotions  which  had  be- 
come alike  distasteful.  She  wondered  why  she 
had  ever  thought  Robert  charming.  He  bored 
her  terribly  now.  She  did  not  know  which 
bored  her  most,  his  fits  of  gloomy  depression 
about  his  work,  or  his  increasingly  rare  fits 
of  devotion  to  herself.  That  she  welcomed 
even  while  she  dreaded,  the  knowledge  that 
Robert's  passion  for  her  was  decreasing,  was 
a  significant  measure  of  her  boredom.  His 
infatuation  was  passing;  and  she  rejoiced,  for 
this  would  make  the  break  with  him  easier. 


The  Day's  Journey 

But  it  must  not  go  too  soon  —  not  till,  well  — 
not  till  she  was  free  —  for  Nigel. 

A  church  clock  struck  half-past  ten,  and 
she  quickened  her  pace.  She  was  late,  and  it 
would  not  do  to  put  Robert  into  a  bad  temper. 
His  note  had  been  more  affectionate  than  usual, 
the  effect  of  absence,  she  supposed,  and  she  re- 
signed herself  to  the  thought  of  a  love  scene. 
She  wondered  whether  he  would  talk  about 
Cecily.  Lately  he  had  begun  to  talk  about  his 
wife,  whose  name  had  at  first  never  been  men- 
tioned between  them.  From  his  irritable  re- 
marks Philippa  had  for  some  time  gathered 
that,  as  with  unaccustomed  bluntness  she  put 
it  to  herself,  he  was  beginning  to  be  jealous, 
and  she  wondered  a  little  idly  if,  "  when  things 
were  over,"  he  and  Cecily  would  be  re- 
united. The  matter  did  not  interest  her 
greatly.  Women  were  not  very  interesting 
to  Philippa,  and  her  thoughts  soon  diverged 
to  the  consideration  that  she  had  a  trying 
morning  before  her,  and  that  it  was  above 
all  things  necessary  to  keep  her  temper.  Nat- 
urally, Philippa' s  temper  was  not  very  good, 
but  in  proud  humility  she  had  often  controlled 
it  lately  "for  Nigel's  sake."  The  thought 
was  a  great  stay  and  consolation.  She  was 
glad  to  discover  what  might  be  endured  with 


The  Day's  Journey          211 

the  sustaining  inspiration  of  a  really  noble 
love. 

Robert  was  pacing  the  study  when  she 
entered,  and  she  went  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hands.  He  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  You  were  in  no  great  hurry,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  Robert ! "  There  was  hurt,  but  tender 
reproach  in  her  voice.  "  Your  clock  is  fast. 
I  did  n't  like  to  come  before  the  time.  I 

thought  it  might  seem "  She  hesitated, 

as  though  confused. 

"  You  Ve  been  quite  on  the  safe  side." 

"Robert,  dear!" — she  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  — 
"aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

He  put  his  lips  to  hers,  and  Philippa  re- 
flected that  she  might  have  been  married  five 
or  six  years.  She  felt  at  the  same  time  re- 
lieved and  impatient. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  holiday  ?  "  she  asked, 
taking  off  her  hat.  "  It  does  n't  seem  to  have 
done  you  much  good."  The  last  words  were 
tinged  with  a  shade  of  acrimony  as  she  glanced 
at  him. 

There  were  ugly  lines  about  his  face,  and 
Philippa  recalled  with  satisfaction  Nevern's 
handsome  profile.  Robert  was  growing  very 
unattractive. 


212         The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  Ve  been  sleeping  so  badly,"  he  com- 
plained. 

"Well,  what  shall  I  do  first?"  was  Phil- 
ippa's  comment  as  she  seated  herself  at  her 
own  writing-table  in  the  window. 

Robert  moved  to  his  desk,  and  stood  fidget- 
ing with  a  paper-knife  before  he  answered. 

"  So  you  don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
it  ?  "  he  burst  out  at  last.  "  What  I  Ve  been 
doing  ?  Who  was  there  ?  Anything,  in  fact." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  My  dear 
Robert,  any  one  would  think  you  'd  been 
round  the  world,  instead  of  a  fortnight  on  the 
river." 

"  You  'd  have  been  anxious  enough  a  year 
ago,"  he  returned,  bitterly. 

She  made  an  impatient  exclamation.  "  How 
unreasonable  you  are !  I  come  in,  longing  to 
see  you,  and  hear  all  about  it,  and  you  're  as 
cross  as  two  sticks.  And  now " 

In  moments  of  irritation  Philippa  evinced  a 
growing  tendency  to  drop  into  the  colloquial, 
but  the  obvious  justice  of  her  remark  appealed 
to  Robert. 

"You're  quite  right,"  he  said,  penitently. 
"  I  'm  unbearable."  He  leaned  over  the  back 
of  her  chair,  and  drawing  her  head  to  him 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 


The  Day's  Journey         213 

Philippa  pulled  herself  together  mentally 
and  smiled. 

"  Give  me  the  letters  to  write  first,"  she 
said,  "  and  then  you  can  dictate." 

Robert  went  back  to  his  desk  and  the 
morning's  work  began.  For  some  time  the 
click  of  the  typewriter  went  on  without  in- 
terruption. Then  Philippa  turned. 

c<  What  am  I  to  say  about  this  letter  of  Mr. 
Nevern's  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  casual  tone. 

Robert  frowned  at  the  name. 

"What's  it  about?     I  forget." 

"  He  encloses  a  poem,  and  asks  your 
opinion  upon  it." 

"  He  'd  be  sorry  if  I  gave  it,"  returned 
Robert,  with  a  laugh. 

Philippa  waited  in  silence. 

"  Is  that  what  I  'm  to  say  ? "  she  inquired 
at  last  in  a  voice  that  expressed  nothing. 

"  Don  't  be  silly.  Just  write  the  usual  note, 
of  course.  I  'm  much  struck  by  the  grace  and 
charm  of  his  verses,  and  so  forth.  And  don't 
mention  the  Literary  Review,  which  is,  of 
course,  what  he  wants  mentioned.  That's  the 
worst  of  having  influence.  One 's  badgered 
incessantly  by  a  lot  of  incompetent  fools." 

Philippa's  machine  was  at  once  set  in  motion. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  had  written  two  notes. 


214  The  Day's  Journey- 
Two  or  three  minutes  later  the  postman's 
knock  was  heard,  and  Robert  went  out  into 
the  hall  to  get  the  letters.  He  returned  with 
two  or  three,  and  stood  opening  them  by  the 
chimney-piece. 

Presently  he  gave  a  short,  angry  laugh. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  asked  Philippa,  without 
turning. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  a  letter  from  Barker. 
He 's  returning  that  last  story."  He  crumpled 
up  the  envelope  and  threw  it  savagely  into  the 
fire. 

"  tfhe  Survivor  ?  "  asked  Philippa,  without 
much  enthusiasm. 

"Yes."  Robert  was  still  glancing  through 
the  letter  with  worried,  angry  eyes ;  presently 
he  began  to  read  snatches  from  it.  " f  Too 
thin  !  .  .  .  interest  not  maintained  .  .  .  scarcely 
up  to  the  standard '  -  -  Rot !  "  He  dashed  the 
letter  down  onto  his  desk.  "  What  do  they 
want  ? " 

"  I  Ve  finished  the  letter,"  remarked  Philippa, 
after  a  silence. 

For  a  moment  Robert  regarded  the  back 
of  her  head  without  speaking. 

"  You  should  try  not  to  be  so  effu- 
sively sympathetic,  Philippa,"  he  said  at 
last,  sarcastically. 


The  Day's  Journey          215 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  calmly  provoking  gaze. 

"  My  dear  Robert,  if  I  were  effusive  over 
every  one  of  your  returned  manuscripts,  I 
should  be  a  wreck  by  this  time.  I  thought 
you  did  n't  care  for  popular  success  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  he  ejaculated,  too  worried 
and  depressed  to  heed  her  tone.  "  I  'm  doing 
bad  work.  It 's  no  use  to  pretend  I  'm  not." 
He  threw  himself  moodily  into  a  chair  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Then  how  do  you  account  for  the  returned 
manuscripts  ? " 

"  Not  the  right  sort  of  badness,  I  suppose," 
he  answered,  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh. 

"  Can't  you  ask  your  wife  for  the  recipe  ?  " 
she  inquired,  letting  herself  go  now,  with  a  sort 
of  savage  pleasure  in  her  own  foolishness. 

Robert  threw  up  his  head  sharply.  "  I 
thought  we  'd  agreed  to  leave  my  wife's  name 
out  of  our  discussions."  And  then,  as  though 
the  words  were  wrung  from  him,  "  What  you 
say  has  n't  even  the  merit  of  being  true,"  he 
added.  "  Her  work  is  good." 

Philippa's  eyes  grew  even  colder. 

"  What  a  pity  I  'm  deficient  in  the  literary 
sense,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  begin  to  think  it 's  not  the  only  sense 


216          The  Day's  Journey 

in  which  you  are  deficient,  Philippa,"  he  re- 
turned, with  growing  anger. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Really  ?  Is 
politeness  one  of  them,  by  any  chance  ?  If  so, 
we  ought  to  exercise  mutual  forbearance." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  politeness.  De- 
cency was  what  I  meant." 

She  looked  at  him  stonily.  "  Please  explain 
yourself." 

"  You  seem  to  take  a  great  pleasure  in  this 
man  Nevern's  society.  At  Lady  Wilmot's 
party,  the  evening  before  I  went  away " 

"  Is  that  why  you  went  away  ? "  she  asked. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  "  No,"  said 
Robert,  and  knew  he  spoke  the  truth. 

She  glanced  at  him  inquiringly,  but  the  mo- 
ment's check  to  the  conversation  sobered  her. 
Counsels  of  prudence  began  to  prevail. 

"Oh,  Robert!"  she  sighed.  "You  don't 
know  how  it  hurts  and  surprises  me  to  find 
this  in  you.  When  you  talk  so,  you  put  your- 
self on  a  level  with  vulgar,  chattering  women 
like  Lady  Wilmot  and  Mrs.  Carruthers, 
who  are  always  discussing  your  matrimonial 
affairs." 

Despite  her  effort  at  conciliation,  the  last 
remark  was  forced  from  Philippa  almost  de- 
spite herself.  She  flung  the  missile,  scarcely 


The  Day's  Journey         217 

knowing  whether  It  would  prove  explosive, 
and  with  some  curiosity  awaited  results. 

"  What  do  they  say  ?  "  demanded  Robert, 
breathlessly. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  "  Mr.  Mayne's 
name  is  always  mentioned,  of  course,"  she  said 
at  last,  with  a  swift  glance.  "  But  what  does  it 
matter,  Robert  ?  " 

"Damned  lot  of  gossips!"  he  exclaimed, 
below  his  breath. 

Instantly  Philippa  became  a  prey  to  con- 
flicting emotions.  "  My  dear  Robert !  You 
are  surely  not  jealous  of  both  of  us  ?  Or  are 
you,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Who  spoke  of  being  jealous  ?  "  demanded 
Robert. 

"  You  did,"  she  retorted. 

"  Merely  because  I  object  to  your  making 
these  very  pronounced  friendships  ?  " 

"  Are  n't  you  confusing  me  with  your 
wife  ? "  observed  Philippa,  with  icy  incisive- 
ness.  "  Your  tone  is  quite  marital." 

There  was  a  moment's  electric  silence. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  Philippa 
rose  from  the  writing-table  and  came  im- 
pulsively towards  him. 

"  Robert,  dear,"  she  begged,  in  her  tender- 
est  voice,  "  this  is  absurd.  Let  us  continue 


2i8         The  Day's  Journey 

to  trust  each  other,  and  not  be  vulgar  about 
our  love."  She  lifted  her  face  pleadingly  to 
his.  It  was  an  attitude  which  she  was  con- 
scious became  her  wonderfully.  The  long 
curve  of  her  throat  never  showed  to  better 
advantage  than  when  her  head  was  thrown 
back  to  look  into  her  lover's  eyes. 

Insensibly  Robert's  face  softened.  He 
kissed  her,  this  time  warmly.  Half  an  hour 
later,  as  she  was  putting  on  her  hat  to  go, 
he  said,  in  a  tone  purposely  gentle  and 
conciliatory  : 

"  You  'd  better  show  me  that  note  to 
Nevern.  It  won't  do  to  offend  him.  He's 
a  good  fellow,  though  he  does  write  rot. 
Perhaps  I  could  get  Field  to  look  at  some 
of  his  stuff — or  Ridgway,  possibly." 

Philippa  turned  over  the  pile  of  letters  she 
had  written,  and  found  what  she  was  seeking. 

"  I  want  some  long  envelopes,"  she  re- 
marked, handing  the  note  to  him  as  she 
passed.  "  No,  don't  trouble,  dear,  I  '11  get 
them.  They're  in  the  cupboard  in  the  hall." 

She  went  out,  and  Robert  carelessly  opened 
the  letter  she  had  left.  He  glanced  at  the 
first  word,  and  dropped  the  paper  as  though 
it  burned  him.  A  dark  flush  began  to  spread 
slowly  over  his  face  as  he  stood  looking  at  it 


The  Day's  Journey          219 

a  moment,  before  he  again  snatched  it  up. 
He  had  the  letter  in  his  hand  when  Philippa 
entered,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
and  an  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece. 

She  put  the  envelopes  in  the  table  drawer, 
gathered  up  the  pile  of  notes,  then  turned 
and  stood  waiting. 

"  Will  it  do,  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Admirably,"  said  Robert,  without  moving. 

She  started. 

"  I  have  to  apologize  for  opening  the 
wrong  letter,"  he  went  on,  almost  in  the 
same  breath.  "  Your  official  communication 
to  Nevern  is  probably  among  the  letters  in 
your  hand." 

His  cold,  clear  voice  reached  her  senses 
like  a  voice  in  a  dream. 

Mechanically  she  glanced  down  at  the 
envelopes  she  held,  then  back  at  Robert's 
immovable  face.  She  grew  slowly  white  to 
the  lips.  They  were  stiff  when  she  tried  to 
move  them.  At  last  the  words  came. 

"  Robert,*'  she  began  in  a  whisper,  "don't 
think  too  badly  of  me.  Let  me  explain." 
She  paused,  watching  in  a  fascinated  way  his 
slow  smile,  as  he  continued  to  look  at  her. 
Presently  she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and 
dropped  her  eyes. 


220          The  Day's  Journey 

"  Mr.  Nevern  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife," 
she  said,  desperately. 

"  Poor  devil ! "  was  Robert's  comment  on 
the  information. 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  Robert !  "  she  implored,  still  in  a  whisper,, 
dragging  herself  closer  to  him.  "  Won't  you 
let  me  explain  ?  " 

He  retreated  a  step. 

"  My  dear  Philippa,"  he  returned,  with  a. 
laugh,  "  why  explain  the  obvious  ?  It  is 
all  quite  simple.  I  am  a  fool,  and  you  are 
—  a  woman."  He  glanced  at  the  clock. 
"It's  one  o'clock.  Don't  let  me  keep  you. 
Good-bye."  The  quiet  finality  of  his  tone 
overwhelmed  her.  She  turned  at  once  to  go. 

"  One  moment,"  he  said.  "  Your  letter." 
He  folded  it  with  precision,  replaced  it  in  its 
envelope,  and  handed  it  to  her  politely. 

Philippa  took  it  silently,  opened  the  doory 
and  went  out  without  a  backward  glance. 


CHAPTER   XX 

and  Mrs.  Summers  had  arrived 
at  the  coffee  stage  of  lunch.  They  were 
alone,  Robert  having  left  a  message  that  he 
was  going  out. 

Cecily  had  received  the  intimation  with 
secret  resentment.  It  struck  her  as  discourte- 
ous to  their  guest,  that  her  husband,  who  had 
only  just  returned,  should  not  have  arranged 
on  that  first  day,  which  was  also  the  last  of 
Rose's  visit,  to  spend  some  of  his  hours  at 
home.  As  the  result  of  long  reflection,  she 
had  met  him  cheerfully  the  previous  evening, 
and  had  been  relieved  to  find  that  he  showed 
no  inclination  to  allude  again  to  the  interrupted 
subject  of  their  difference.  She  determined  to 
ignore  the  matter ;  to  behave  as  though  the 
discussion  had  never  arisen. 

Rose  glanced  at  her  once  or  twice  as  she 
sat  absently  stirring  her  coffee. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about?  "  she  asked 
at  length,  breaking  the  silence  abruptly. 


222          The  Day's  Journey 

The  depth  of  Cecily's  reflection  was  indi- 
cated by  her  start. 

"  Robert,"  she  answered,  laconically. 

"  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  Lots  of  things.  But  chiefly  how  ill  he 
looks." 

"  He  can't  have  heard  anything,  can  he  ?  " 
suggested  Rose  after  a  moment. 

Cecily  made  a  little  movement  expressing 
ignorance.  "  She  was  here  this  morning  as 
usual,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  Rose  agreed.  "  It  can't  be  that. 
And,"  she  added,  suddenly,  "  I  don't  believe 
he  cares  any  more  about  her." 

"  Some  one  else  ?  "  suggested  Cecily,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"Yes  — you." 

Cecily  raised  her  head,  and  looked  full  at 
her  friend.  There  was  in  her  face  a  curious 
mixture  of  expression ;  a  sort  of  pitying  con- 
sternation and  a  faint  gleam  of  amusement. 
It  was  the  glance  with  which  a  mother  might 
have  heard  of  some  unreasonable  and  rather 
troublesome  caprice  on  the  part  of  her  son. 
Rueful  annoyance  was  coupled  with  a  slight 
admixture  of  tenderness. 

"  It  would  be  so  like  Robert,"  was  all  she 
said  in  reply  to  Rose. 


The  Day's  Journey          223 

"And  if  it's  true,"  pursued  Rose  after  a 
moment,  "  would  you ?  "  She  paused. 

"  Oh,  Rose  !  "  said  Cecily.     "  Rose ?  " 

She  drew  her  breath  in  suddenly.  "  If  you 
hit  a  live  thing  on  the  head  often  enough, 
you  make  it  insensible.  What 's  the  good 
of  caressing  it  then  ?  " 

Mrs.  Summers  was  silent. 

"  Robert  ought  to  go  away,"  Cecily  con- 
tinued, rising  from  the  table.  "  He  '11  be  ill  if 
he  does  n't.  I  'd  like  him  to  go  yachting  with 
the  Daintons,"  she  went  on,  meditatively. 
"They  are  always  asking  him.  I  wonder  if  it 
could  be  managed  ?  " 

"No  doubt,"  Rose  assured  her. 

"  If  only  he  could  get  away  before  he  hears 
anything  —  and  stay  away  till  that  young 
woman  is  safely  married !  " 

Despite  herself,  Rose  laughed.  "  That 
young  woman "  as  designated  by  Cecily  was 
irresistible. 

"  You  '11  never  be  a  saint,  my  dear !  " 

"  A  saint  ? "  she  repeated,  absently,  her 
mind  evidently  still  preoccupied.  "Why 
should  I  be  ?  I  'm  only  worried  about 
Robert."  She  continued  to  discuss  in  detail 
plans  for  persuading  her  husband  to  take  a 
long  holiday,  and  only  roused  from  her 


224         The  Day's  Journey 

musings  upon  the  subject  to  glance  hurriedly 
at  the  clock. 

"  Dick  will  be  here  in  a  minute ! "  she 
exclaimed.  "You're  sure  you  don't  mind  my 
leaving  you  ?  You  know  I  would  n't  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  but  business  is  business, 
and  I  must  see  Coombs  to-day."  She  hurried 
away,  and  five  minutes  later  looked  in,  putting 
on  her  gloves  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  're  all  ready  except  your  hat,  are  n't 
you,  Rose  ?  You  need  n't  start  before  a 
quarter  to  three.  It 's  at  the  Court  theatre, 
you  know  —  quite  close.  Good-bye  ;  I  dare 
say  I  sha'n't  be  very  much  later  than  you.  I  'd 
like  to  get  a  little  rest  before  dinner  to-night." 

She  went  out  with  a  smiling  nod,  and  left 
Rose  meditating  upon  her  prettiness,  till  a 
ring  at  the  bell  startled  her,  and  Mayne  was 
announced. 

"You  know  Cecily's  not  coming?"  was 
her  greeting  as  they  shook  hands. 

"  So  she  told  me.  Has  to  see  her  agent,  or 
something." 

"Yes,  a  business  matter.  Sit  down  and 
have  a  cigarette  ;  we  Ve  got  half  an  hour  before 
the  matinee." 

Mayne  complied.  As  he  settled  himself 
in  the  easy-chair  opposite  to  her,  Rose  was 


The  Day's  Journey          225 

conscious  of  very  mixed  emotions.  She  liked 
Mayne.  She  had  always  liked  him,  even  in 
his  hobbledehoy  stage,  when  she  had  first 
discerned  his  boyish  admiration  for  Cecily. 
She  looked  at  him  now,  and  sighed  at  the 
perversity  of  fate.  This  man,  with  his  unob- 
trusive air  of  determination  and  quiet  strength, 
was  the  man  Cecily  should  have  married. 
Why  could  she  not  have  cared  for  him  ? 

Her  heart  misgave  her,  and  the  half- 
formed  determination  in  her  mind  for  a 
moment  melted.  It  was  after  all  possibly  a 
dangerous,  certainly  a  thankless,  task  to  in- 
terfere. She  found  herself  wishing,  wishing 
with  all  her  strength,  that  she  did  not  know 
Cecily  so  well ;  that  she  might  at  least  have 
the  excuse  that  it  was  not  for  an  outsider  to 
forecast  the  future.  And  in  the  midst  of 
chaotic  reflections,  she  found  herself  speaking. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  that 
Philippa  Burton  is  going  to  marry  that  young 
Nevern?" 

Mayne  started.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
Philippa 's  name  had  been  mentioned  between 
them  with  significance. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  That  queen  of  gossips,  Lady  Wilmot,  of 
course." 

'5 


226         The  Day's  Journey 

"  Is  she  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  're  keeping  the  engagement 
secret,  but  Nevern's  mother  discovered  it, 
and  went  to  Lady  Wilmot  in  tears." 

Mayne  inquiringly  raised  his  head. 

"  Oh,  merely  because  he  's  the  only  son, 
and  she 's  jealous  at  the  thought  of  any 
daughter-in-law,  I  believe,"  returned  Mrs. 
Summers  in  reply  to  his  look.  "  Of  course," 
she  added,  with  a  shrug,  "  it  would  be  in- 
teresting to  know  what  hints  Lady  Wilmot 
dropped  during  the  interview.  She  knows 
nothing  actually,  but  she  's  very  curious  about 
the  situation  here." 

Mayne  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  "  And 
—  Kingslake  ?  "  he  asked,  presently. 

"  Does  n't  know  —  yet." 

Dick  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  Cecily  ? "  he 
said,  with  some  difficulty. 

"  Yes.  Lady  Wilmot  called  yesterday,  and 
told  both  of  us  —  in  strict  confidence." 

Mayne's  rather  set  face  relaxed  into  a  quiz- 
zical smile.  Rose  answered  it  calmly. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  she  said.  "  But  quite  apart 
from  the  fact  that  by  this  time  she 's  told 
half  London,  I  meant  you  in  any  case  to 
know." 

Mayne  looked  at  her.    "  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 


The  Day's  Journey          227 

"  I  leave  that  to  your  intelligence,"  said 
Rose,  meeting  his  eyes  steadily. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  How  well  Cecily  looks  ! "  she  remarked 
presently  in  an  ordinary  tone.  "  She 's  wildly 
busy,  but  it  seems  to  suit  her." 

"  It  suits  most  of  us,  I  imagine,"  returned 
Mayne,  slowly. 

"  Are  you  carrying  out  the  doctrine  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  No  ?     What  are  you  doing,  then  ?  " 

«  Idling." 

"  That 's  unusual,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

Mayne  threw  his  cigarette  end  out  of  the 
window. 

"  You  think  I  ought  to  be  moving  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose,  abruptly,  as  though 
moved  by  a  sudden  determination.  "  Why 
don't  you  ? " 

He  again  met  her  eyes,  this  time  doggedly. 

«  Why  should  I  ?  " 

Rose  took  her  courage  in  both  hands.  There 
was  something  in  the  man's  face  which  showed 
her  she  had  need  of  it. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  it  has  n't  taken 
me  long  to  discover  that  people  are  talking." 

He  smiled  grimly.  "  But  that  is  peren- 
nial." 


228          The  Day's  Journey 

"  And,"  continued  Rose,  undaunted,  "  her 
husband  is  jealous." 

This  time  he  laughed  unpleasantly.  "  Of 
what  ?  Her  success  ?  " 

"  Partly.  But  not  only  that.  Of  her —  of 
you."  It  was  out  now,  and  she  took  breath  a 
little  uneasily. 

He  rose,  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
window-frame. 

"  In  the  face  of  that  ?  "  he  jerked  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  Robert's  study,  and  laughed 
again.  There  was  something  in  his  tone,  a  sav- 
age irony,  mingled  with  a  kind  of  appeal,  that 
made  it  very  difficult  for  Rose  to  keep  her  head. 
Yet  she  managed  to  answer  coolly. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  quite.  But,  as  I  Ve  often 
found,  it  takes  one  man  to  expect  logic 
from  another." 

"  There  's  something  more  important  than 
logic  that  the  average  man  surely  may  ex- 
pect," returned  Mayne.  He  had  thrown  off 
all  attempt  at  lightness  of  tone  by  now. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Common  decency." 

They  looked  at  one  another.  "  My  dear 
Dick,"  said  Rose,  slowly,  "  when  one  comes 
down  to  the  primitive  emotions,  one  must  n't 
expect  even  that.  Put  love,  jealousy,  or  hatred 


The  Day's  Journey          229 

in  one  scale  —  and  civilization  will  be  a  feather 
in  the  other." 

He  continued  to  look  down  at  her.  When 
he  spoke  it  was  under  his  breath. 

"  I  agree.  Hatred,  you  say  ?  By  God " 

He  checked  himself,  and  turned  abruptly  to- 
wards the  window. 

Rose  watched  him  a  moment.  "  Dick,"  she 
said,  "  you  have  only  one  person  to  consider 
—  Cecily." 

He  wheeled  round.  "  And  I  have  con- 
sidered her.  Kingslake  overreached  himself 
there.  He  knew  I  cared  for  her.  What  he 
didrit  know,  was  how  much  I  cared." 

Rose  hesitated  before  she  made  her  appeal. 
"  Listen  to  me,  Dick,"  she  began,  very  gently. 
"  I  see  what  you  've  done  for  Cecily.  You  've 
restored  her  confidence  in  herself  for  one  thing. 
You  Ve  given  her  back  her  youth  —  even  her 
beauty ;  all  she  was  losing,  in  short.  She  her- 
self says  so.  She  would  never  have  had  the 
courage  to  take  up  life  again  if  it  had  n't  been 
for  you."  She  paused,  and  then  said  suddenly, 
"  Now  there 's  only  one  more  thing  you  can  do 
for  her  —  go-" 

She  saw  she  had  struck  the  right  note,  but 
she  saw,  too,  the  struggle  in  his  face  before  he 
broke  out  into  speech. 


23°          The  Day's  Journey 

"  But  why  ?  "  he  urged.  "  Why,  in  heaven's 
name  ?  It  is  n't  as  though  there  had  ever  been 
a  word  —  Cecily  only  wants  my  friendship.  I 
know  that  well  enough,  worse  luck,"  he  added, 
with  a  hopeless  want  of  logic  which  Rose  found 
pathetic.  "  I  've  never  troubled  her  with  any- 
thing else.  Gossip,  you  say  ?  Very  well.  I  '11 
see  less  of  her.  But  to  go  away " 

"  It  is  n't  only  that,"  interrupted  Rose, 
stemming  his  torrent  of  words. 

"  What,  then  ?  " 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  and  her  eyes 
travelled  to  the  blue  sky,  and  to  the  tall  shaft 
of  the  campanile.  "  All  sorts  of  things,"  she 
answered,  slowly.  "  What  an  abominably  pen- 
etrating book  the  Bible  is,  when  one  does  n't 
read  it  too  often,"  she  added,  after  a  moment, 
with  apparent  irrelevance.  "  c  The  heart  is 
deceitful  above  all  things '  —  Robert  has  dis- 
covered that,  if  I  mistake  not." 

Mayne  was  silent. 

"  I  believe  he  used  to  think  himself  rather 
a  noble  fellow  at  one  time,"  she  went  on, 
"  with  his  higher  love  and  so  forth  —  whatever 
that  may  mean." 

Mayne  uttered  a  contemptuous  exclamation. 
"  Well  ?  "  he  demanded,  "  but  how  does  that 
illustrate  my  case  ?  " 


The  Day's  Journey         231 

"  You  talk  about  Cecily's  friendship,"  she 
returned,  "  but  are  n't  you,  unconsciously,  per- 
haps, relying  a  little,  just  a  very  little,  on  that 
patience  from  which  you  hoped  so  much  before 
she  married  ?  " 

Mayne  said  nothing.  He  had  seated  him- 
self once  more  in  the  arm-chair,  and  Rose  was 
aware  of  the  rigidity  of  his  attitude.  It  was  as 
though  his  body  had  become  suddenly  frozen. 

She  went  on,  not  quite  steadily.  "  You  hate 
me  for  saying  it,  of  course.  So  should  I,  if  I 
were  you.  But,  Dick  —  you  and  I  are  not  by 
nature  self-deceivers.  We  think  straight.  And 
when  one  person  loves,  even  though  the  other 
does  not,  is  it  quite  safe  ?  There  comes  a  weak 
moment  —  a  sense  of  the  dreariness  of  life  — 
gratitude  on  one  side;  on  the  other  a  strong 
emotion.  Oh,  Dick,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

Mayne  raised  himself  slowly,  and  bent 
towards  her.  When  he  began  to  speak  it 
was  slowly,  also,  as  though  he  were  feeling 
for  the  words. 

"  So  now,"  he  said,  "  when  I  've  helped  her 
to  be  self-reliant ;  when  she  's  found  a  life  of 
her  own,  apart  from  his ;  now,  when  he  's 
thrown  over  by  the  woman  who  has  fooled 
him,  now  I  'm  to  disappear  in  order  that  he 
may  enslave  her  again  !  "  He  rose  swiftly,  with 


23  s          The  Day's  Journey 

a  bitter  laugh,  and  stood  before  her.  "Oh,  you 
good  women  !  you  good  women  !  " 

Rose  watched  him  as  he  walked  blindly 
towards  the  mantelpiece  and  stood  leaning 
his  elbow  upon  it. 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  she  said,  at  last ; 
"  I  am  not  arguing  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
conventional  '  good  woman  '  at  all.  I  —  well, 
I  have  no  rigid  views  on  the  subject.  I  look 
upon  each  case  as  something  to  be  considered 
on  its  own  merits,  or  demerits." 

"  And  on  which  side  would  you  put  mine  ?  " 
He  asked  the  question  with  mockery. 

"  Viewed  from  the  outside,"  returned  Rose, 
judicially,  "  I  should  say  it  has  merits.  Cecily 
has  been  badly  treated.  You  are  a  decent  man, 
and  there  are  no  children  to  be  considered. 
But  there  are  two  drawbacks.  One  is  that  she 
does  n't  love  you  —  yet,  at  least.  The  other  — 
and  it  is  the  most  important  —  is  Cecily's  own 
nature." 

Mayne  turned  round.  "Yes?"  he  said. 
"  What  about  that  ?  " 

"You  spoke  of  her  husband  enslaving  her 
again,"  she  answered.  "He  will  never  do 
so.  All  that  made  that  possible  is  over.  But 
Cecily  happens  to  be  a  very  faithful  woman. 
I  've  sometimes  thought,"  observed  Mrs. 


The  Day's  Journey          235 

Summers,  reflectively,  "  that  to  bestow  this 
characteristic  upon  a  woman  is  the  last  refine- 
ment of  cruelty  on  the  part  of  the  gods." 
She  paused  a  moment,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  I  may  be  wrong.  In  any  case 
Cecily  has  the  faithful  temperament.  She  has 
loved  her  husband.  She  will  never  really  love 
again.  But  that  is  not  saying  there  's  no  dan- 
ger if  you  stay.  Let  us  imagine  that  you  stay. 
Cecily  is  a  woman  —  therefore  all  things  are 
possible.  But,  Dick,  can  you  look  me  in  the 
face  and  tell  me  that  you  don't  know  the  dis- 
aster of —  of  such  a  possibility  ?  Even  now, 
though  she  does  n't  love  him,  she  's  worrying 
about  Robert  because  he  looks  ill,  because 
he  's  unhappy, — heaven  knows  what.  Just  the 
maternal  instinct,  you  know.  She  will  never 
cease  to  worry  about  him.  Suppose  you  gained 
your  point ;  would  you  keep  her  friendship  ? 
Would  you  get  anything  worth  having  in  its 
place  ?  Dick,  you  know  you  would  n't !  " 

He  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment  she  went 
on  in  a  low  tone. 

"It's  because  the  really  good  things  in  life 
are  so  few,  that  I  want  you  not  to  run  the 
risk  of  losing " 

Mayne  faced  her.  "The  best  I've  had?" 
he  suggested,  finishing  the  sentence  slowly. 


The  Day's  Journey 

Mrs.  Summers  nodded,  and  was  annoyed 
to  find  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  room  was  quite  still  for  what  seemed 
a  long  time,  and  when  a  clock  struck  they 
both  started. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  Mayne,  with  a 
glance  at  it.  "  We  've  missed  that  show." 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  she  said,  mechani- 
cally. 

He  drew  himself  up  as  though  with  a 
sudden  resolve.  "  Do  you  mind  if  I  go  ? 
I  —  I  feel  rather  as  though  I  'd  like  to  walk 
a  thousand  miles  or  so,"  he  added,  with  a 
forced  laugh. 

She  put  out  her  hand.  "Yes,  go,"  she 
said,  very  kindly.  "  You  don't  forget  you  're 
dining  here  to-night  ?  Cecily  told  me  to 
remind  you  that  dinner  is  at  half-past  eight." 

He  nodded.  "All  right."  He  was  still 
holding  her  hand,  and  suddenly  he  raised 
it  to  his  lips,  dropped  it  hurriedly,  and  went 
out  without  a  word. 

Mrs.  Summers  stood  looking  at  the  back 
of  her  hand.  "If  I  'd  been  in  his  place,  I 
should  have  cut  you  off  instead,"  she  said, 
savagely  under  her  breath  —  "with  a  blunt 
knife,  too!" 


CHAPTER   XXI 

WHEN  Cecily  returned,  it  was  about 
six  o'clock.  She  was  tired,  and  after 
asking  for  Rose,  and  hearing  that  she  was  in 
her  room,  she  decided  to  dress  at  once,  and 
afterwards  rest  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  till  the  arrival  of  her  guests. 

As  she  walked  into  the  room  some  time 
later,  the  surface  of  her  mind  was  full  of 
little  preoccupations  and  interests.  She  had 
invited  pleasant  people  for  Rose's  farewell 
dinner,  and  she  hoped  the  evening  was  going 
to  be  a  success. 

She  had  already  been  into  the  dining-room 
to  see  and  approve  the  table  decoration,  and 
she  now  looked  critically  about  the  drawing- 
room,  altering  the  position  now  of  a  bowl  of 
roses,  now  of  one  of  the  lights.  It  all  looked 
very  charming,  she  thought,  as  she  arranged 
a  cushion  behind  her  head  on  the  pale- 
colored  empire  sofa,  and  lay  back  watching 
the  fire  with  wide,  preoccupied  eyes. 

Beneath  the  trivialities  were  stirring  graver 


236         The  Day's  Journey 

thoughts,  deeper  speculations.  They  were 
insistent,  if  scarcely  defined,  and  when  she 
heard  behind  her  the  sound  of  an  opening 
door,  and  her  husband  entered,  the  sight  of 
him  brought  them  into  sudden  definite  form. 

As  she  looked  up,  she  was  shocked  by  the 
strained,  nervous  expression  of  his  face.  He 
came  forward  with  a  sort  of  groping  move- 
ment, regarding  first  the  lighted  room,  and 
then  his  wife's  evening  gown,  with  irritable 
surprise. 

"  Is  any  one  coming  ?  "  he  began. 

"  We  have  a  dinner  to-night,  you  know," 
she  answered,  surprised,  for  earlier  in  the  day 
he  had  discussed  the  subject. 

He  uttered  an  impatient  exclamation. 
"  The  house  is  always  full  of  people,"  he 
declared.  "It's  sickening!  Can't  you  have 
a  quiet  evening  now  and  then  ?  Who 's 
coming  ?  " 

Cecily  glanced  at  him,  and  controlling  her- 
self with  an  effort,  spoke  gently. 

"  We  talked  about  all  of  them  only  this 
morning,"  she  said.  "  The  Eversleighs,  Lady 
Ashford,  Colonel  Ferguson,  Miss  Devereux, 
Dick  Mayne -" 

"  Oh  —  naturally !  "  he  interrupted,  with  a 
sneer. 


The  Day's  Journey          237 

The  color  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  There 
was  a  little  pause. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  him  steadily. 

"  My  reasons  must  be  fairly  obvious." 

"  They  escape  me,"  returned  Cecily. 
"  Surely,  Robert,"  she  added,  after  a  breathless 
pause,  "  we  need  not  continue  the  conversation 
you  began  the  other  evening  ?  " 

"There  is  every  need,"  he  declared.  "The 
last  time  we  discussed  this  subject,  you  thought 
my  attitude  towards  it  {very  funny,'  I  remem- 
ber. I  'm  sorry  I  have  n't  your  sense  of 
humor.  Funny  as  you  may  consider  it,  I  in- 
tend to  talk  about  what  you  find  so  ridi- 
culous —  my  honor.  It 's  time,  I  think,  since 
you  seem  to  have  forgotten  yours." 

Cecily  got  up  slowly  from  the  sofa,  and 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  faced  him  with 
dangerously  bright  eyes. 

"  That  is  not  true,"  she  said,  deliberately. 
"  But  that  it  does  n't  happen  to  be  true  is  no 
thanks  to  you." 

Kingslake,  his  nerves  strained  to  the  utter- 
most, had  lost  all  self-control,  and  was  letting 
himself  go,  but  he  recoiled  a  step  before  his 
wife's  gaze. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  he  asked. 


238          The  Day's  Journey 

"You  really  want  me  to  tell  you?"  Her 
voice  came  to  him  icily.  "Very  well,  then,  I 
will.  Two  years  ago,  I  was  a  wretched,  un- 
happy woman  because  you  had  ceased  to  care 
for  me,  and  I  had  therefore  ceased  to  care  for 
—  anything.  But  I  never  suspected  there 
was  a  reason  —  I  thought  it  had  just  happened 
so  —  I  thought  I  had  somehow  failed  to  keep 
your  love.  Then,  quite  by  chance,  I  heard  of 
Philippa  Burton." 

Robert 's  face  changed.  "  But  till  that  day 
at  the  Priory "  he  began. 

Cecily's  eyes  suddenly  fell.  She  turned  her 
head  aside,  with  a  sort  of  unbearable  shame- 
"Robert!"  she  urged  in  alow  voice,  "don't 
try  to  deceive  me  any  more.  Before  that  day 
at  the  Priory  you  had  seen  her  constantly  — 
every  day,  in  fact,  for  months." 

He  looked  at  her  uncertainly.  "And  you 
knew  this  —  all  the  time?  " 

"  Not  all  the  time.  Not  till  a  few  days 
before  you  took  rooms  for  her  in  the  village,, 
and  then  only  by  the  strangest  chance." 

There  was  a  silence.  Robert  broke  it  in  a 
curious,  shamed  voice. 

"  Cecily,  I  swear  to  you  that  Miss  Burton 
and  I  were  only  friends." 

She  stood  tracing  figures  on  the  shelf  of  the 


The  Day's  Journey         239 

mantelpiece  with  her  forefinger.  When  she 
spoke  it  was  very  quietly. 

"  You  should  be  careful  where  you  make 
love  to  your  friends,  Robert.  The  garden  is 
a  more  or  less  public  place." 

He  started,  then  began  to  pace  the  room. 

"  Cecily  !  "  he  urged.     "  Listen " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  sound  that  was 
half  a  sob. 

"  Ah,  Robert !  —  please  don't.  What  does 
it  matter  now  ?  It  hurts  me  so  to  hear  you  — 
and  you  see  I  know.  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter 

when  it  first "  Her  voice  sank  almost  to 

a  whisper,  but  she  recovered  herself.  "  Under 
the  circumstances,"  she  added,  "  what  was  I 
to  think  of  your  invitation  to  Dick  ? " 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  Cecily,"  he  began  again  at  last,  clear- 
ing his  throat,  "  do  you  —  do  you  really 
imagine ? " 

She  turned  once  more  and  looked  him  full 
in  the  face,  and  again  his  eyes  fell  before  hers. 
"What  I  try  to  imagine,  is  that  you  didnt 
think,"  she  said,  slowly.  "You  were  so  en- 
grossed that  you  had  forgotten  —  much.  But 
sometimes,  Robert  —  to  be  truthful  —  I  find 
it  hard  to  accept  even  that  explanation." 

He  continued  to  walk  restlessly  about  the 


240  The  Day's  Journey 

room.  "So  you  —  you  impute  to  me  vile 
motives  like  that  ?"  he  asked,  uneasily. 

"  You  do  think  them  vile  ?  I'm  glad  of 
that,"  she  answered,  slowly.  "  In  any  case  you 
did  n't  know  Dick.  He  loves  me  as  you  have 
never  loved  me." 

He  turned  sharply  and  gazed  at  her.  "  You 
dare  to  tell  me  that !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Cecily,  quietly,  "I  dare.  I 
owe  it  to  Dick  that  I  'm  no  longer  the  miser- 
able, helpless  woman  I  was  when  he  came 
home.  Then,  I  was  dependent  for  all  that 
makes  life  upon  the  love  of  one  man  —  who 
had  failed  me.  Now,  I  have  a  life  of  my  own, 
friends  of  my  own,  work  of  my  own.  And 
it  was  Dick  who  showed  me  how  to  trust 
myself,  and  shake  myself  free  !  " 

He  stood  looking  at  her.  In  the  midst  of 
the  whirl  of  emotions  within  him,  jealousy, 
resentment,  humiliation,  and  a  childish  long- 
ing for  comfort,  he  thought  how  beautiful  she 
was.  He  realized  every  detail  of  her  gleaming 
dress ;  he  saw  the  whiteness  of  her  breast,  the 
curve  of  her  lips,  the  droop  of  her  cloudy 
hair. 

"In  the  intervals  of  love-making,  no 
doubt  ?  "  he  suggested. 

Her  eyes  grew  hard.     "Is  it  necessary  to 


The  Day's  Journey          241 

be  insulting  ?  Dick  has  never  made  love 
to  me  since  I  have  been  your  wife." 

For  a  long  moment  he  looked  at  her.  He 
believed  what  she  said.  Cecily  had  never  lied 
to  him.  If  she  said  so,  he  told  himself,  it  was 
true,  and  with  the  assurance  came  an  almost 
terrible  sense  of  relief.  He  was  still  thinking 
chaotically ;  the  wound  inflicted  by  Philippa 
to  his  pride  still  rankled  with  an  intolerable 
smart.  Cecily's  attitude  towards  him  was  a 
further  humiliation  —  but  the  last  evil  had  not 
descended.  His  wife  was  still  his. 

He  paused  in  his  restless  pacing  and  stood 
before  her. 

"  Cecily,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  "  won't 
you  be  friends?  I  have  behaved  badly.  I 
admit  it."  He  felt  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  this 
self-abasement,  but  Cecily  did  not  move.  "  I 
give  you  my  word  it 's  all  over,"  he  went  on, 
desperately.  "  Miss  Burton  will  never  come 
here  again.  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  I 
love  you.  Really,  I  love  you.  I  can't  see 
you  drifting  away  from  me " 

She  did  not  speak,  and  with  her  silence 
waves  of  growing  resentment,  of  unreasonable 
anger,  began  to  gather.  "  But  you  must  give 
up  this  intimacy  with  Mayne,"  he  added,  with 
a  change  of  voice.  He  waited.  "After  all, 

16 


242          The  Day's  Journey 

you  are  my  wife.  I  have  a  right  to  demand 
that."  He  took  an  impatient  step  towards 
her  and  put  out  his  hand  to  draw  her  to  him. 
Suddenly  she  recoiled  from  him  and  began 
to  speak  in  a  low,  rapid  voice,  vehemently, 
passionately. 

"  Did  you  love  me  when  I  was  wretched  — 
longing  for  you  —  eating  my  heart  out  with 
misery  ?  No  !  You  never  even  noticed  that 
I  was  miserable.  But  now  —  now,  when  I  've 
got  back  my  looks,  when  I  'm  rather  admired, 
rather  sought  after  —  now,  when  your  love 
affair  is  over  because  the  woman  has  deceived 
you  —  now  you  come  to  me  and  profess  love  ! 
To  me  such  love  is  an  insult,  whether  it  's 
offered  by  a"  woman's  husband  or  any  other 
man  ! "  She  paused  and  with  a  great  effort 
added,  with  quiet  deliberation,  "  I  refuse  to 
give  up  my  friendship  with  Dick.  It  's  no 
more,  it  will  never  be  anything  more  than  a 
friendship,  but  "  —  she  paused  —  "  it  's  the 
best  thing  I  've  had  in  my  life." 

For  a  second's  space  they  looked  at  each 
other  silently. 

"  Mr.  Mayne,"  said  the  maid  at  the  door. 

Mayne  entered.  There  was  a  moment's 
embarrassing  silence  while  his  look  travelled, 
scarcely  perceptibly,  from  one  to  the  other. 


The  Day's  Journey          243 

Then  he  spoke  coolly,  without  haste,  as 
usual. 

"  I  'm  at  least  half  an  hour  too  early.  I 
don't  deserve  my  hostess  to  be  ready." 

Robert  glanced  at  his  watch.  "  You  are 
very  early,"  he  said,  significantly,  "  but  I  will 
go  and  dress." 

His  face  was  white  with  anger  as  he  passed 
Mayne  on  the  way  to  the  door. 

When  it  closed  upon  him,  Mayne  went  up 
to  the  mantelpiece  and  stood  opposite  Cecily. 

"  What 's  wrong  ?  "  he  asked,  gravely. 

She  tried  to  keep  her  voice  steady,  and 
smiled.  "  Nothing  —  nothing  that  matters. 
A  silly  little  argument,  that 's  all." 

"  Your  husband  is  suspicious  of  our 
friendship  ? " 

Cecily  glanced  at  him  appealingly,  then 
suddenly  dropped  her  head  on  her  clasped 
hands. 

"Oh,  don't,  Dick!  -  Don't!"  she  whis- 
pered. "  I  can't  go  through  it  all  again." 

Mayne  stood  looking  at  her  down-bent 
head.  All  at  once  he  leaned  over  her. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  loved  me,"  he  said,  in 
a  low,  passionate  voice. 

She  raised  her  face  and  looked  at  him 
steadily. 


244  The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  did,"  she  answered,  very 
slowly. 

He  made  a  sudden  movement  towards  her 
and  checked  himself. 

"Could  you ?  ...  No!  That  is  n't 

what  I  've  got  to  say."  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face  and  went  on,  doggedly,  "  Cis, 
I  'm  going  away." 

Cecily  started. 

"  That  's  why  I  came  early,"  he  went  on, 
in  the  same  unemotional  tone.  "  I  hoped  to 
find  you  alone.  ...  I  must  go,  Cis.  For  a 
long  time  I  've  known  it,  but  I  've  kept  it 
at  the  back  of  my  mind  and  would  n't  look. 
And  now,  at  last,  Mrs.  Summers  has  made 

me  drag  it  out,  and  so "  He  finished 

the  sentence  with  a  gesture. 

"  Rose  ?  "  repeated  Cecily,  vaguely. 

tc  She  's  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  It  's  not 

fair  to  you "  She  made  a  protesting 

movement,  but  he  intercepted  it  and  drew 
himself  up.  "  It  's  not  fair  to  me  to  stay," 
he  added,  firmly. 

Her  hand  dropped  at  her  side.  "  Not  fair 
to  you  ?  "  she  echoed,  as  if  a  new  light  had 
broken.  "  No  ;  it  is  n't  —  it  is  n't."  She 
moved  to  the  sofa  and  let  herself  drop  against 
the  cushions  as  though  exhausted.  "  I  've 


The  Day's  Journey  245 

been  selfish,  Dick,"  she  went  on,  still  in  the 
same  dazed  voice.  "  I  've  been  so  thankful 
for  your  help.  So  glad  of  you  —  you  can't 
think  how  glad.  And  all  the  time  I  never 
realized  what  it  must  have  meant  to  you." 
She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  head  with  a 
touchingly  childish  gesture.  "  I  Ve  been  hor- 
ribly selfish." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  —  looking  as  though 
by  his  intense  gaze  he  would  print  her  face  upon 
his  memory  forever.  Only  vaguely  he  heard 
what  she  was  saying.  His  senses  were  too 
full  of  her  to  heed.  The  faint  fragrance  of 
her  dress,  the  sweet  blue  of  her  troubled 
eyes,  the  quivering  of  her  lips,  were  making 
his  heart  beat  to  suffocation. 

"  No,  dear,"  he  murmured,  absently,  "  no." 

"Yes,"  she  insisted.  "Oh,  Dick!  it  has 
been  hateful  of  me,  but  do  you  know  what 
helped  me  to  pull  myself  together  ?  It  was 
knowing  you  —  you  loved  me  .  .  .  and  ad- 
mired me.  It  was  such  a  long  time  since  I 
had  known  that  any  man  felt  that.  ...  It 
was  mean  of  me,  contemptible  —  but  some- 
how it  helped  me  awfully.  It  gave  me  back 
my  self-esteem.  It  flattered  my  vanity.  .  .  . 
Dick,  don't  you  hate  me  ? " 

He   laughed   gently.     "  Did   you   think    I 


246  The  Day's  Journey- 

did  n't  know  it  ?  "  he  said.     "  Did  you  think 
I  wasn't  glad?" 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  rose,  and,  fac- 
ing him,  spoke  urgently,  almost  imperatively. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  going  to  say  to 
you  what  you  said  to  me  two  years  ago. 
Don't  waste  your  life  over  one  human  be- 
ing. The  world  is  wide,  and  it 's  before 
you.  And  you're  a  strong  man.  Go,  and 
forget  me." 

"  I  shall  go,"  said  Mayne,  briefly. 

"  When  ?  "  She  faltered  a  little  over  the 
word. 

"  To-morrow." 

She  was  silent,  looking  at  him ;  trying  to 
realize  life  without  him. 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  he  said,  at  last, 
drawing  a  long  breath.  "  I  'm  used  to  setting 
out  for  nowhere  at  a  moment's  notice,  you 
see.  So  this  will  be  our  farewell  feast,  Cis. 
You  '11  drink  to  my  —  to  my  ^success  ?  " 

"  To  your  happiness,  Dick,"  she  whispered, 
in  a  shaking  voice. 

Mayne  looked  at  her  again  with  such  a 
long  gaze  that  her  eyes  sank. 

"  Cecily,"  he  said  at  last,  huskily,  "  we  Ve 
known  each  other  for  a  long  time.  Do  you 
know  the  years  I  've  loved  you  ?  .  .  .  And 


The  Day's  Journey          247 

perhaps  I  shall  not  come  back.  .  .  .  May  I 
kiss  you  once — just  to  remember  all  my 
life  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "  Yes,  Dick," 
she  answered. 

With  a  half  cry,  Mayne  drew  her  into  his 
arms,  and  put  his  lips  to  hers.  It  was  the 
kiss  he  had  dreamed  of  for  years ;  a  kiss 
that  in  a  rapture  of  mingled  torture  and  de- 
light expressed  all  that  for  years  he  had  felt 
for  the  woman  he  held  for  one  brief  moment 
like  a  lover.  A  colored  mist  swam  before 
him  as  he  raised  his  head.  He  felt  Cecily 
gently  disengage  herself,  and  it  was  the  si- 
lence in  the  room  that  cleared  his  brain,  and 
then  his  sight. 

Kingslake  was  standing  just  inside  the  door. 

For  a  moment  the  stillness  seemed  to  press 
upon  the  air  like  a  visible,  tangible  weight  be- 
fore it  was  broken  by  Robert's  savage  laugh. 

"  What  liars  you  women  are,"  he  said, 
slowly,  under  his  breath,  his  eyes  upon  his 
wife.  "  Are  n't  you  ?  All  of  you  !  All 
alike  !  " 

Mayne  made  a  menacing  step  towards  him. 

"  Be  careful  what  you  say  !  "  he  began,  in  as 
low  a  voice.  "  We  'd  better  be  alone.  Cecily," 
—  he  turned  to  her  —  "  will  you  go  ?  " 


248          The  Day's  Journey 

"  No,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  I  prefer  to  stay.'* 
She  looked  past  Mayne  at  her  husband. 

"  All  I  said  to  you  just  now  is  true " 

He  laughed  again. 

"  You  take  a  low  view  of  my  intelligence, 
my  dear  child." 

"  If  it  were  only  your  intelligence ! "  broke 
in  Mayne  in  a  tone  low  still,  but  vibrating  with 
passion  scarcely  controlled,  "  that  would  n't 
matter."  Suddenly  he  went  towards  him, 
standing  close,  and  speaking  in  a  rapid  tone, 
almost  in  his  ear.  "  Listen  !  "  he  said.  "  This 
once,  at  least,  you  shall  see  yourself  as  I  see 
you  —  as  any  fairly  decent  man  sees  you.  You 
knew  all  about  me.  You  knew  how  for  years 
—  ever  since  I  was  a  boy  at  Oxford  —  I  loved 
her  and  hoped  to  make  her  love  me  —  till  you 
came  on  the  scene.  Then  I  saw  it  was  all  up. 
Well,  I  took  it  pretty  decently,  did  n't  I  ?  I 
went  away.  I  stayed  away.  I  did  n't  come 
home  till  I  felt  myself  cured  of  all  but  af- 
fection for  your  wife.  Then  I  met  you,  and 
you  pressed  me  —  begged  me  to  come  to  your 
house.  And  I  came  to  you  —  in  all  good  faith, 
God  knows  —  as  your  friend,  as  well  as  your 
wife's.  Before  I  'd  been  in  the  house  an  hour 
I  saw  you  were  neglecting  her.  Then  you 
brought  that  woman  down,  and  I  wondered. 


The  Day's  Journey          249 

It  was  only  by  degrees  that  I  saw  what  you 
wanted,  you "  He  checked  himself  be- 
fore the  word  was  out.  "  How  does  it  strike 
you  ? "  he  went  on,  falling  back  a  step.  "  Tell 
me  !  You  knew  I  had  loved  her.  In  the  old 
days  you  were  jealous  enough  of  our  friend- 
ship. What  do  you  think  of  a  husband  who 
neglects  his  wife,  insults  her  by  bringing  his 
mistress  to  her  house,  and  then  calls  an  old 
lover  upon  the  scene  ?  That  I  cared  for 
her  too  much  to  insult  her  —  that  she  is  the 
woman  you  know  her  to  be,  is  no  thanks  to 
you.  If " 

Robert's  face  was  white,  but  he  broke  in 
upon  the  other  man  's  torrent  of  words  with  a 
voice  of  ice. 

"  And  you  really  expect  me  to  believe  this 
—  this  eloquent  —  what  shall  I  call  it  ?  It  is 
certainly  no  explanation." 

Cecily,  who  had  been  standing  motionless 
at  the  head  of  the  sofa,  now  came  swiftly  to 
her  husband. 

"  Please  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  breathlessly. 
"  You  have  lived  seven  years  with  me.  You 
know  whether  I  speak  the  truth.  Do  you  or 
do  you  not  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
Dick  has  never  kissed  me  before?  He  is 
going  away  at  once  —  to-morrow,  and " 


250         The  Day's  Journey 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  Before  she  could 
recover,  Robert  spoke. 

"  Very  ingenious,"  he  said.  "  Do  I  believe 
you  ?  With  my  experience  of  your  sex,  my 
dear  Cecily  —  certainly  not." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then,  as  though 
coming  to  a  decision,  Mayne  turned  deliber- 
ately towards  Cecily. 

"  I  shall  not  go  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  You 
know  you  can  rely  upon  me." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Cecily,  slowly,  "  I  will 
remember  it." 

He  took  her  hand  a  moment,  then  released 
it,  and  went  to  the  door.  When  it  closed 
after  him,  Cecily  found  herself  wondering 
whether  she  had  or  had  not  heard  the  hall 
door-bell  a  few  moments  before.  She  glanced 
at  Robert,  who  was  moving  with  slow,  blind 
steps  towards  the  window. 

It  was  then  that  a  sudden  vision  of  the 
rose-garden  at  the  Priory  flashed  upon  her 
mental  sight.  Once  more  she  saw  Philippa 
in  her  husband  's  arms.  History,  she  reflected, 
with  an  impulse  to  break  into  dreadful  laugh- 
ter—  history  had  repeated  itself,  with  a  slight 
difference.  How  ludicrous,  how  futile,  how 
awful,  life  was  with  its  senseless  blending  of 
the  grotesque  and  tragic ;  materials  for  a 


The  Day's  Journey         251 

heartrending  farce,  to  be  played  before  what 
monstrous  spectators ! 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her 
hands  clenched  and  clasped  tightly  to  her 
breast,  in  an  agonized  struggle  with  her  laugh- 
ter and  her  tears. 

Had  she  really  heard  the  hall  bell  or  not? 

The  question,  a  vital  one,  as  for  some 
reason  it  seemed  to  her,  was  answered  a 
moment  later,  when  the  door  opened,  and  the 
maid  announced,  "  Lady  Ashford  and  Miss 
Devereux." 

They  came  in  smiling,  suave,  unconscious, 
with  outstretched  hands.  Cecily,  smiling  also, 
went  forward  with  composure  to  receive  her 
guests. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

AFTER  wandering  for  two  or  three  months 
abroad,  Cecily  and  Diana  discovered  that 
all  roads  lead  to  Rome.  In  Rome,  therefore, 
they  had  been  established  for  a  week,  when 
Cecily  strolled  one  day  alone,  towards  the 
garden  of  the  Villa  Medici. 

It  was  Rose  Summers,  with  whom,  after 
the  night  of  the  dinner-party,  Cecily  had  spent 
some  weeks,  who  had  urged  upon  Cecily  this 
plan  of  travel.  For  some  time  previous  to  the 
break  between  Cecily  and  her  husband,  Diana 
had  not  been  strong ;  she  was  made  the  excuse 
for  the  closing  of  the  Westminster  flat  in  the 
following  autumn.  Rose  arranged  the  expla- 
nation. For  the  sake  of  her  sister's  health, 
Cecily  must  at  once  take  her  abroad,  while  her 
husband,  who,  for  business  reasons  connected 
with  his  work,  could  not  go  so  far  afield,  had 
decided  to  divide  the  period  of  her  absence 
between  the  country  and  a  stay  in  Paris. 

It  was  thus  that   Mrs.  Summers   strove  to 


The  Day's  Journey          253 

put  a  screen  between  an  inquisitive  public  and 
the  ruins  of  one  more  domestic  hearth. 

"  They  '11  talk,  of  course,"  she  observed, 
"  and  try  to  look  through  the  chinks  in 
the  boarding ;  but  as  long  as  they  don't 
see  too  plainly,  their  talk  does  n't  matter 
much." 

Cecily  had  acquiesced  indifferently.  "  Just 
as  you  please,"  she  said.  "All  I  want  is 
to  get  away  —  and  I  shall  not  come  back. 
But  I  quite  agree  that  there 's  no  need  to 
provide  entertainment  for  literary  tea-parties 
by  saying  so." 

"All  I  ask,"  returned  Rose,  "is  that  you 
shall  give  yourself  time ;  that  you  shall  take 
no  irrevocable  step."  To  which  Cecily  had 
responded  by  a  smile  and  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

She  had  Mayne's  letter.  He  had  seen 
Mrs.  Summers.  He  intended  to  be  osten- 
sibly busied  in  getting  together  funds  and 
volunteers  for  a  new  exploring  expedition, 
the  progress  of  which  was  to  be  extensively 
paragraphed.  In  the  meantime,  he  told  her, 
he  simply  waited.  He  was  in  her  hands. 
At  any  moment  a  summons  would  bring  him 
to  her.  It  was  a  characteristic  letter  —  terse, 
restrained,  almost  laconic  in  tone.  The  letter 


254         The  Day's  Journey 

of  a  man  who  would  not  plead,  because,  under 
the  circumstances,  pleading  seemed  unfair; 
yet,  after  reading  it,  Cecily  had  never  so 
fully  realized  the  strength  and  abidingness  of 
his  love  for  her.  She  took  the  letter  with 
her  on  her  journeyings,  and  carried  it  about 
with  her.  It  was  never  absent  from  her 
thoughts.  It  was  in  the  background  of  her 
consciousness  on  the  quay  at  Genoa,  while 
she  watched  the  teams  of  white  horses  in 
their  scarlet  coats  pulling  lumbering  wagons. 
In  thought  she  considered  it,  while  with 
Diana  she  admired  the  picturesqueness  of 
the  shuttered  houses,  festooned  with  flutter- 
ing washing,  or  stooped  to  look  inside  the 
cave-like,  fourteenth-century  shops,  or  climbed 
the  many  steep  flights  of  steps  to  the  upper 
town,  whence  they  looked  upon  an  enchant- 
ing sea  of  roofs ;  roofs  the  color  of  faded 
carnations,  of  orange  lichen,  of  mushroom 
brown,  each  with  its  tiny  pergola  of  vines,  its 
tub  of  oleander,  or  its  orange  tree.  It  was 
with  her  in  Florence,  when  she  stood  before 
the  great  pictures  in  gallery  or  palace,  when, 
at  the  sunset  hour,  the  cathedral  and  the 
exquisite  campanile  were  suddenly  turned  to 
mother-of-pearl  and  roses  against  the  violet 
sky.  It  was  with  her  here  in  Rome.  To 


The  Day's  Journey  255 

think  of  it,  to  ponder  over  all  that  it  implied, 
to  force  herself  to  come  to  some  decision, 
she  had  wandered  to-day  into  the  garden  of 
the  villa,  glad  to  be  alone. 

Diana,  who  had  made  friends  with  a  lively 
party  of  American  girls  at  the  hotel,  had 
joined  one  of  their  excursions  to  Tivoli,  and 
would  not  be  back  till  the  evening.  Cecily 
crossed  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  paused  to 
look  at  the  banks  of  flowers  which,  piled  up 
at  the  foot  of  the  stately  sweep  of  steps, 
make  an  exquisite  foreground  to  one  of  the 
most  charming  pictures  in  Rome.  Like 
bees,  the  flower-sellers  instantly  surrounded 
her,  offering  seashell-tinted  and  scarlet  anem- 
ones, branches  of  deep  orange-colored  roses, 
sprays  of  feathery  mimosa,  violets,  and  quaint, 
flat  little  bouquets  of  pink  rosebuds.  She 
bought  a  bunch  of  the  latter,  and  freeing 
herself  from  the  buzzing  crowd,  began  to 
mount  the  shallow,  moss-grown  steps,  shaking 
her  head  smilingly  at  the  little  contadini 
models,  with  their  elaborately  picturesque  rags, 
and  their  proffered  nosegays.  At  the  top,  she 
paused  as  usual  to  glance  over  the  beautiful 
ribbed  roofs  of  the  city,  roofs  which  always  made 
her  think  of  brown  shells  cast  up  by  the  sea 
of  time;  shells  that  had  suffered  a  sea-change. 


i$6          The  Day's  Journey 

Overhead  in  its  blueness,  was  spread  wide 
the  "  unattainable  flower  of  the  sky,"  that 
Roman  sky  which  blossoms  like  a  flower  of 
Paradise ;  and  away  to  the  right,  as  though 
floating  in  a  blue  ocean,  stone  pines  lifted 
their  islands  of  green,  soft  as  velvet,  into  the 
clear  air. 

Cecily  was  aware  of  all  the  beauty;  she 
missed  none  of  the  thousand  appeals  to  the 
senses;  the  warmth,  the  fragrance  of  grow- 
ing flowers,  the  color,  the  richness.  But 
her  response  was  on  the  surface  only.  Be- 
neath it,  her  whole  mind  was  a  prey  to 
doubt  and  indecision ;  that  state  of  conscious- 
ness which,  out  of  the  hundreds  that  can 
make  of  life  a  hell  for  damned  souls,  is 
as  capable  as  any  of  inflicting  torture.  As 
Cecily  passed  through  the  iron  gate  leading 
into  the  garden  of  the  villa,  and  mounted  the 
upward  sloping  path  between  the  ilexes,  she 
would  gladly  have  exchanged  their  mys- 
terious darkness,  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the 
pathetic  beauty  of  the  moss-grown  statue  at 
the  end  of  the  path,  the  delicious  sound  of 
falling  water,  the  flecks  of  sunshine  on  the 
gravelled  walk,  for  a  back  street  in  Clapham 
—  and  peace  of  mind. 

At  the  top  of  the  sharply  zigzag  path  she 


The  Day's  Journey         257 

paused  by  the  barricade  of  monthly  roses  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill  to  take  breath  and  gaze 
once  more  over  the  city  at  her  feet. 

It  was  all  inexpressibly  beautiful,  but  she 
turned  away,  blinded  with  tears.  She  crossed 
the  sunny  square  of  garden  in  front  of  the 
villa  and  sat  down  on  a  marble  seat,  behind 
which  a  rose  tree  clambered.  There  were  very 
few  people  about.  One  or  two  appeared  from 
time  to  time  behind  the  parapet  of  the  terrace 
leading  to  the  upper  garden,  and  she  could 
hear  the  voices  of  children  in  the  ilex  thickets 
below.  But  practically  she  was  alone  in  the 
sunshine,  and  her  thoughts  were,  as  ever,  busy 
with  Mayne's  letter. 

What  should  she  do  ?  For  the  thousandth 
weary  time  she  asked  herself  the  same  question. 
Did  she,  or  did  she  not,  love  him  ?  Passion 
for  him  she  had  none.  Not  for  the  first  time 
she  found  herself  wishing  ardently  that  she 
had.  At  least  it  would  simplify  things ;  it 
would  bring  her  to  a  decision.  Then,  she 
told  herself,  she  would  not  hesitate.  She  re- 
viewed the  possible  outcome  of  the  situation. 
A  legal  separation  —  and  Dick  banished  to 
Africa?  She  had  seen  enough  of  the  life 
of  a  young  woman  living  apart  from  her 
husband  to  make  her  view  this  consummation 


258          The  Day's  Journey 

with  disfavor.  And  in  her  case  there  was 
the  added  disadvantage  of  being  to  some 
extent  a  celebrity.  She  knew  the  sort  of  man 
she  would  constantly  be  obliged  to  repel,  and 
the  necessity  for  such  a  task  sickened  her. 
And  life  without  Dick  ?  Without  his  ad- 
vice? Without  the  comforting  sense  of  his 
protection  and  care  ?  An  empty  life,  child- 
less, loveless,  with  none  but  intellectual  needs 
to  work  for  and  gratify  ? 

Her  whole  nature  shrank  from  this.  She 
had  come  to  realize  intensely  how  to  a  woman 
the  needs  of  the  heart  must  ever  stand  first ; 
how  success,  fame,  intellectual  achievements  are 
mere  stop-gaps,  anaesthetics  from  which  she  is 
ever  in  danger  of  waking  to  a  horrible,  dreary 
reality  —  a  sense  that  she  is  indispensable  to 
no  one,  that  no  human  being  views  her  exist- 
ence as  the  one  supremely  important  fact  in 
life. 

"  Oh,  we  're  handicapped  !  —  how  we  're 
handicapped ! "  she  cried  to  herself,  as  she 
sat  motionless  in  the  sunshine.  "  Physically, 
through  our  emotions  —  every  way.  .  .  . 
Would  n't  it  be  better,  saner,  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  with  Dick,  even  though  I 
dont  feel  for  him  anything  of  what  I  felt 
for  Robert  ?  At  least  he  feels  it  for  me. 


The  Day's  Journey          259 

That  's  something.  At  least  I  could  make 
one  creature  happy."  Some  one  had  come 
along  the  gravelled  walk  in  front  of  the  seat. 
She  had  not  noticed  his  approach  till  she  be- 
came conscious  of  a  shadow  between  her  and 
the  sun,  and  saw  with  a  vague  astonishment 
its  cause.  A  man  was  standing  quite  close 
in  front  of  her,  looking  down  upon  her. 
Raising  her  eyes,  she  met  Mayne's. 

She  struggled  to  her  feet,  feeling  curiously 
as  though  lead  weights  were  dragging  her 
back. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "  I  did  n't  know 
you  were  in  Rome,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"  But  you  ?  I  thought  you  were  in 
town  ?  "  .  .  . 

"  Yes.  My  old  godfather  is  here.  He  's 
dying,  poor  old  chap,  and  he  thought  I  was 
going  to  Africa.  He  begged  me  to  come 
and  say  good-bye.  He  practically  brought 

me  up,  you  know,  so  I  couldn't "  He 

did  not  finish  the  sentence ;  his  eyes  were 
straying  hungrily  over  her  face.  "  Come  ! 
Let 's  go  up  there,"  he  said,  abruptly,  nod- 
ding towards  the  upper  terrace. 

Mechanically  Cecily  turned  and  walked  at 
his  side.  They  passed  through  the  gate  and 
up  the  steps,  to  that  terrace  which  gives  upon 


s6o         The  Day's  Journey 

the  beautiful  avenue  of  ilexes  leading  to  a 
further  flight  of  moss-grown  steps. 

The  avenue  was  deserted.  The  rays  of 
sunshine  that  pierced  its  roof  fell  in  tiny 
flecks  upon  the  path.  But  for  these  specks 
of  brightness,  the  alley  was  a  tunnel  of  cool 
green  gloom.  They  entered  it  in  silence. 

"  Mrs.  Summers  said  you  were  in  Florence," 
began  Mayne,  at  last. 

"Yes,  we  Ve  only  been  here  a  week.  I 
have  n't  written  to  Rose  since  we  left." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  She  was  in  white, 
as  he  liked  best  to  see  her.  All  the  long 
months  she  had  been  away,  he  remembered, 
he  had  always  pictured  her  in  white.  Her 
arm  brushed  his  sleeve  as  they  walked,  and 
he  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Cecily,"  he  said,  suddenly,  and  his  voice 
trembled  also,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  and  he  saw  the  color  go  from 
her  face.  They  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
crumbling  steps  by  this  time.  Cecily  noticed 
minutely  the  ferns  —  hart's-tongue  and  maiden- 
hair—  that  sprang  in  chink  and  crevice,  and,  as 
she  passed  it,  looked  curiously  at  the  pattern 
of  spotted  white  lichen  with  which  each  broken 
step  was  adorned.  Now  they  had  emerged 
from  the  gloom  of  the  roof  of  trees,  into  the 


The  Day's  Journey  261 

blinding  sunshine  in  which  the  little  sham- 
classic  temple  at  the  top  was  bathed.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  walled-in  enclosure.  Cecily 
moved  to  the  side  overlooking  the  Borghese 
Gardens,  and  sat  down  on  the  rough,  sun- 
warmed  wall. 

Mayne  stood  behind  her.  "  Cecily,"  he 
urged  once  more,  "you  mustn't  keep  me  in 
suspense  much  longer."  There  was  a  danger- 
ous note  in  his  voice. 

She  turned  to  him.  "  Oh,  Dick  !  "  she  said 
in  a  voice  that  was  almost  a  cry ;  "  I  am  so 
worried.  If  only  I  knew  what  to  do ! " 

He  stooped  swiftly,  and  gathering  her  up 
in  his  arms,  held  her  close,  while  he  kissed 
first  her  lips,  then  her  throat,  with  an  inten- 
sity of  passion  which  thrilled  and  communi- 
cated itself  to  her.  When  at  last  he  let  her 
go,  she  too  was  trembling.  After  all,  it  was 
sweet  to  be  loved  like  this.  She  felt  awaken- 
ing in  her  the  woman's  pride  and  triumph 
in  her  power  to  rouse  strong  emotion  in  a 
man.  And  Dick  loved  her  in  all  the  other 
ways,  too.  She  could  rely  on  him.  He  would 
never  fail  her. 

Her  lips  moved.  She  meant  to  yield  at 
once  —  to  give  him  his  answer  now,  irrev- 
ocably. 


262          The  Day's  Journey 

Instead,  she  said,  faintly,  "I'll  write  —  to- 
night. Where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  entreatingly  a  moment; 
then,  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  a  note-book, 
he  scribbled  an  address  on  a  leaf  torn  from  it. 

"  Cecily ! "  he  whispered  as  he  gave  it  to 
her.  "  Cecily  !  " 

Mechanically,  as  though  urged  by  some 
force  outside  herself,  Cecily  got  up,  and  began 
to  descend  the  steps.  He  followed  her. 
They  walked  back  through  the  gloomy  avenue 
in  silence.  Just  before  they  reached  the 
terrace,  he  took  her  ungloved  hand  and  put 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  back  alone  ? "  she 
asked,  under  her  breath. 

"  You  wish  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear." 

He  stepped  back  to  let  her  pass,  and  as 
she  did  so,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  appeal- 
ing eyes. 

"  I  will  write  to-night,  Dick,"  she  said,  very 
gently. 

She  left  him  standing  on  the  terrace,  and 
found  her  way  back  through  the  lower  garden, 
down  the  Scala  di  Spagna,  across  the  Piazza 
to  the  hotel.  Everything  stood  bathed  in 


The  Day's  Journey         263 

sunshine  as  in  a  dream.  She  had  a  sense  that 
all  the  people  she  passed  were  dream-figures. 
Everything  had  become  all  at  once  unsub- 
stantial, unreal,  shadows  of  something  else. 

When  she  reached  the  hotel  the  hall  porter 
put  a  packet  of  letters  into  her  hand.  Most 
of  them  had  been  forwarded  from  Florence,  as 
she  noticed  in  turning  them  over  on  her  way 
up  to  her  room.  One  of  them  was  from  Rose. 

Her  bedroom,  which  looked  south,  was 
flooded  with  sunshine  when  she  entered.  She 
lifted  a  basket-chair  into  the  balcony,  and  sink- 
ing into  it,  sat  for  some  time  with  the  letters  in 
her  lap.  She  felt  no  inclination  to  open  them. 
She  did  not  want  to  break  the  sensation  of 
dreaming  which  lulled  her  senses,  and  banished 
all  the  care  and  worry  of  the  past  months.  It 
would  be  pleasant  to  sit  like  this  in  the  sun- 
shine all  the  rest  of  her  life ;  never  to  think, 
just  to  know  that  she  was  being  cared  for,  that 
her  presence  made  the  joy  of  another's  life. 
And  why  not?  Why  not  an  easy,  dreamy  life 
in  sunny  lands,  with  Dick  ? 

Opposite  to  her,  the  old  walls  and  roof  of  a 
monastery  cut  with  its  irregular  lines  the 
brilliant  sky.  The  gay,  striped  awning  above 
a  vine-wreathed  terrace  at  a  lower  level  flapped 
gently  in  the  breeze.  Beneath,  the  little 


264  The  Day's  Journey 

courtyard  garden  was  a  tangle  of  oleanders  in 
tubs,  of  orange  and  lemon  trees.  And  over  all 
lay  the  sunshine.  Cecily,  stretching  her  body 
lazily  in  the  long  wicker  chair,  instinctively 
raised  her  arms  towards  the  sky,  as  though  to 
clasp  its  warmth,  its  deliciousness.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  she  thought  of  her  letters, 
and  then  she  began  to  open  the  envelopes  with 
indifference.  None  of  them  were  of  any  im- 
portance. She  had  left  Rose's  till  the  last. 

It  began  with  news  of  the  children,  of  her- 
self, and  went  on  to  information  about  various 
acquaintances.  Then  all  at  once,  and  quite 
abruptly,  it  spoke  of  Robert.  Cecily  started 
when  she  read  his  name.  She  had  agreed  with 
Rose  that  it  should  not  be  mentioned  in  their 
correspondence.  "  Robert  is  back,"  the  letter 
ran.  "He  wrote  to  me  a  day  or  two  ago  from 
the  flat,  and  asked  if  he  might  come  down  for 
the  day.  He  came,  and  he  looked  shockingly 
ill  and  hopelessly  miserable.  He  came  for 
news  of  you.  I  did  n't  mention  your  name  at 
first,  till  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer.  He 
followed  me  about  with  his  eyes  like  a  dog, 
begging.  Then  at  last  we  spoke  of  you.  I 
don't  know  what  you  said  before  you  went, 
but  evidently  he  has  no  hope.  He  looked  like 
my  Jim  when  he 's  been  naughty  and  thinks 


The  Day's  Journey          265 

I  'm  not  going  to  say  good-night  to  him.  He 
was  back  at  the  flat,  but  I  persuaded  him  to  go 
away  again  for  a  few  days  at  least.  He  says 
he  hates  the  sight  of  London.  I  hope  you 
still  like  Florence.  How  does  Diana  enjoy 
everything  ?  .  .  ."  Cecily  dropped  the  letter, 
leaving  the  latter  pages  unread. 

Mechanically  she  turned  her  eyes  towards 
the  garden.  All  the  dream-feeling  was  gone. 
She  was  Robert's  wife.  She  knew  the  look 
that  Rose  meant ;  she  could  see  his  face  before 
her.  Everything  but  that  was  blotted  out. 
Bending  her  head  down  upon  her  knees,  she 
broke  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

For  hours  she  sat  in  her  room,  forgetting 
the  time,  forgetting  everything  but  the  urgent 
need  of  getting  home,  —  home  to  comfort  some 
one  who  had  need  of  her. 

Presently  she  rose,  and,  fetching  her  writ- 
ing case,  wrote  two  letters.  It  was  strange 
to  feel  no  uncertainty,  to  be  no  longer  racked 
with  doubt,  to  have  no  more  vacillations. 
Her  course  now  was  plain;  she  felt  no  more 
hesitation  than  a  mother  feels  when  she  hears 
her  child  is  ill. 

Hours  afterwards,  when  Diana  came  in, 
eager  to  recount  the  affairs  of  the  day,  Cecily 
was  still  in  her  room. 


266          The  Day's  Journey 

The  girl  started  as  she  opened  the  door,  and 
her  sister  rose  to  meet  her. 

"  Diana,"  Cecily  began,  "  I  'm  going  home 
to-morrow.  If  you  like  to  stay  I  think  the 
Armstrongs  would  look  after  you " 

Diana  sprang  towards  her  as  she  staggered  a 
little  against  the  table.  "  I  suppose  you  've 
had  nothing  to  eat ! "  she  exclaimed  practi- 
cally. She  pushed  her  sister  back  into  the 
chair,  and  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"  We  '11  have  dinner  up  here,"  she  an- 
nounced, taking  the  lead  with  characteristic 
determination,  "  and  then  you  can  tell  me  all 
about  it.  If  you  go  to-morrow,  I  shall  go 
too.  Auntie  says  that  wretched  Brown  girl  is 
making  a  dead  set  at  Archie  —  she  began 
directly  he  came  home.  I  shall  go  and  stop 
it." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

ROSE  was  a  little  startled,  but,  on  the 
whole,  scarcely  surprised  by  Cecily's  tele- 
gram. It  was  like  her  to  act  impulsively,  and 
Rose  had  never  been  in  doubt  as  to  the  right 
note  to  strike,  if  she  should  ever  wish  to 
strike  it.  That  she  did  wish  it,  was  only 
made  clear  to  her  by  the  sight  of  Robert's 
unmistakable  misery.  "  If  he  really  wants 
her  it  will  be  all  right,  or  at  least  right 
enough,"  she  had  argued,  and  she  had  been 
justified.  Cecily  was  coming  back.  She  had 
meant  to  be  at  the  flat  to  receive  her,  but  a 
feverish  attack  developed  by  the  baby  kept 
her  at  home  till  after  her  cousin  had  been  a 
day  in  town. 

When,  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day,  she  reached  the  flat,  Diana  came  flying 
out  to  meet  her.  "  Cis  is  shopping.  She  '11 
be  back  in  a  minute,"  she  assured  her,  vigor- 
ously embracing  her  meanwhile. 

Rose  looked  at  the  girl  with  laughing 
approval.  Diana  would  never  be  a  beauty, 


268          The  Day's  Journey 

but  she  had  learned  how  to  dress ;  her  figure 
was  excellent,  and  her  alert,  humorous  face 
very  attractive. 

"  Is  Robert  home  ?  "  Mrs.  Summers  in- 
quired, rather  anxiously. 

Diana  made  a  little  grimace.  "  No,"  she 
said.  "  He  does  n't  know  we  're  here.  Does  n't 
deserve  to,  either,"  she  added.  Diana  was 
whole-hearted  in  her  dislikes. 

Rose  laughed.  "  And  Cis  ?  "  she  asked. 
"How  is  Cecily?" 

Diana's  face  clouded  a  little.  "  Oh  !  —  she 's 
well.  But "  She  paused  abruptly. 

"  Yes  ? "  asked  Rose,  divining  something 
of  what  was  stirring  in  the  girl's  mind. 

Oh  —  nothing,"    returned    Diana,  hastily. 
I  've  seen  Archie,"  she  added,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  subject. 

Mrs.  Summers,  who  knew  the  faithful 
admirer,  and  Diana's  casual  attitude,  looked 
amused. 

"  You  need  n't  laugh  !  "  Diana  exclaimed, 
with  solemnity.  "  It 's  awfully  serious  —  he 
is,  I  mean." 

"  And  you  ? "  inquired  Rose,  stifling  her 
mirth. 

"  I  don't  know,"  sighed  Diana,  sitting  in 
an  easy  attitude  on  the  arm  of  a  chair. 


cc 

cc 


The  Day's  Journey          269 

"  He 's  much  better  looking,"  she  added,  con- 
fidentially ;  "  not  a  boy  any  more,  you  see. 
So  somehow  you  can't  laugh." 

"  Did  you  want  to  ?  " 

"N — no  —  that  was  the  annoying  part." 
Mrs.  Summers  again  repressed  a  smile. 

"  He  did  n't  lose  much  time  in  coming  to 
see  you,"  she  remarked. 

"  No  —  did  he  ?  "  replied  Diana,  briskly. 
"  So  the  beastly  Brown  girl  did  n't  make  much 
impression,  anyway." 

"  Well  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it  ?  "  Rose  inquired. 

Diana  sighed  again.  "  I  don't  know  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  I  do  hate  to  be 
grown  up  —  it 's  such  a  bother."  Despite  the 
childishness  of  the  words,  Rose  was  struck  by 
the  ring  of  real  dismay  in  the  girl's  voice. 

"Why,  dear?"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  Diana  did  not  answer,  then 
she  said,  suddenly,  "  Because  I  see  what  life  is 
like.  It 's  just  like  one  of  those  days  that  are 
so  brilliant  at  first,  and  then  ddoud  over  and 
get  all  gray.  Not  stormy  or  anything,  you 
know, — just  gray." 

There  was  a  tremble  in  her  voice  which 
touched  the  elder  woman.  She  recalled  the 
chilling  breath  from  real  life  which  had  first 


270         The  Day's  Journey 

crept  into  the  paradise  of  her  own  youthful 
imagination.  She  remembered  how,  before  it, 
the  flowers  drooped,  and  the  sunshine  faded. 
It  was  a  searching,  unpleasant  wind. 

"  Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ?  " 
she  said,  softly,  after  a  moment.  "  But,  my 
dear,  the  sun  comes  out  again  sometimes,  even 
on  a  gray  day." 

"Yes,"  Diana  reluctantly  agreed ;  "but  then 
it's  afternoon  —  perhaps  evening." 

"  Wait  till  you  get  a  little  more  grown 
up,"  returned  Rose,  smiling.  "  You  '11  think 
better  of  afternoon.  In  the  meantime,  cheer 
up;  there's  still  all  the  morning  for  you." 

Diana  shook  her  head.  "  I  think  I  Ve  had 
my  morning,"  she  answered,  slowly.  "  It  was 
when  I  could  rit  understand  why  people  let  — 
love  and  things  count." 

"  And  now  you  begin  to  see  ? " 

She  nodded.  "  Well,  at  least  I  see  that 
perhaps  they  can't  help  it."  She  looked  wist- 
fully at  Mrs.  Summers,  her  face,  still  babyish 
and  immature,  full  of  a  painful  foreboding. 
"  But  I  dread  it,"  she  added,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per. "  Look  at  Cecily.  Think  how  much 
in  love  she  was.  Do  you  remember  Robert, 
too  ?  .  .  .  And  what  has  come  of  it  all  ?  What 
has  been  the  good  of  it  ?  " 


The  Day's  Journey         271 

"  Perhaps  more  than  you  think,"  Rose 
answered,  quickly.  "  Love  is  not  a  thing 
which  demands  payment  by  result.  And 
besides,  my  dear,  in  any  case,  what  has  that 
to  do  with  you  ?  Each  of  us  must  travel  our 
own  road,  take  our  own  risks,  meet  our  own 
fate.  No  one  else's  experience  is  any  guide." 

Diana  looked  at  her  with  big  eyes,  increas- 
ingly hopeful,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  are  sad  to  lose  your  childhood  ? " 
Rose  went  on  after  a  moment,  patting  the 
girl's  arm  affectionately.  "  I  know.  So  was 
I.  But  it's  all  in  the  day's  journey,  Diana. 
Dawn  is  a  lovely  thing  —  but  suppose  one 
never  saw  the  sunrise  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Diana,  and  two  suns 
rose  simultaneously  in  her  eyes  and  set  them 
dancing.  "  That  would  be  awful,  would  n't 
it?" 

Rose  laughed.  "  When  is  Mr.  Archie 
Carew  coming  again  ?  " 

"  Whenever  I  like,"  said  Diana,  a  little  self- 
consciously. "  Ah  !  "  at  the  sound  of  a  ring, 
"  there 's  Cis  !  She  '11  be  so  glad  you  're  here." 

"  Rose  has  come,"  she  announced  before 
rushing  into  her  bedroom,  where  she  first 
looked  into  the  glass  with  some  anxiety,  then 
rearranged  the  curls  on  her  forehead,  and 


272         The  Day's  Journey 

subsequently,  for  no  better  reason  than  that 
she  felt  excited  and  not  altogether  unhappy, 
burst  into  tears. 

Diana  was  not  given  to  emotional  display, 
so,  after  a  moment's  indulgence  in  a  weakness 
she  despised,  she  bathed  her  eyes  with  scorn- 
ful roughness,  powdered  them  severely,  and 
sat  down  to  ask  Mr.  Carew  to  lunch  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

In  the  meantime  Rose  and  Cecily  had  met. 
Cecily's  first  question  was  for  Robert.  It 
was  asked  with  anxious  eyes,  and  Rose  felt 
enormously  relieved.  She  had  not  after  all 
done  wrong  in  assuming  responsibility. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  him  since  the  day  he  came 
down  to  the  Cottage,"  she  returned,  "  when, 
as  I  tell  you,  he  was  looking  ill  enough  — 
even  to  please  me.  I  sent  him  to  play  golf 
at  Aldeburgh,  but  he  may  be  back  any  day. 
And  you,  Cis  ? "  She  inspected  her  friend 
critically.  Cecily  looked  very  pretty,  very 
dainty,  but  frailer  than  when  she  went  away. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I'm  all  right.  It  seems 
—  odd  to  be"  —  she  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  went  on  quietly  —  "home  again."  She 
looked  round  the  room  with  a  half-humorous 
smile.  "  How  angry  I  was  the  last  time  I 


The  Day's  Journey          273 

stood  here,"  she  said.  "  And  now  that  does  n't 
matter  either." 

Rose  looked  troubled.  "  Cecily,"  she  said, 
doubtfully,  "  you  don't  regret  this  ?  I  have  n't 
done  wrong  ? " 

"  Regret  ?  "  repeated  Cecily,  slowly.  "  No. 
It  was  inevitable.  I  could  n't  help  myself." 
She  paused  a  moment.  "  There  are  certain 
things  I  can't  tell  even  you.  But  when  your 
letter  came,  I  thought  I  had  decided  to  take 
a  great  step  —  to  alter  my  whole  life.  Then 
your  letter  came,  and  I  knew  I  had  been 
absurd.  There  was  no  question  about  it  — 
if  Robert  wanted  me.  He  does  want  me, 
Rose?" 

"  I  wish  you  had  seen  him." 

"  Then,  don't  you  see,  that  settles  it  ? 
There  are  some  things  one  can't  argue  about. 
I  think,"  she  added,  slowly,  "one  doesn't 
argue  about  any  of  the  important  things  in 
life.  It's  strange,  but  when  you've  lived 
with  some  one  —  some  one  you  have  once  loved 
—  above  everything,"  —  her  voice  trembled 
a  little,  — "  you  grow  bound  to  them  with 
thousands  and  thousands  of  little  chains 
which  seem  as  light  as  air  and  are  really 
strong  as  steel.  So  you  see  you  don't  argue. 
It 's  foolish,  when  you  're  bound  and  know 

18 


274         The  Day's  Journey 

you  can't  get  away  without  tearing  up  your 
whole  nature  by  its  roots."  There  was  a 
sile-nce. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  to  that,"  said 
Rose  at  last  in  a  quiet  voice.  "  I  was  waiting 
for  it.  But  you're  not  unhappy,  Cis  ?  "  she 
added,  wistfully. 

"Unhappy?"  she  echoed.  "No.  When 
one  has  learned  at  last  that  life  is  a  constant 
scraping  of  the  gilt,  and  being  thankful  for 
the  gingerbread,  one  is  not  unhappy.  I 
have  my  friends."  She  touched  Rose's  hand. 
"  I  have  my  work.  There  are  beautiful 
things  in  the  world  —  and  I  have  time  for 
them  now.  f  Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  brother,' ' 
she  quoted,  smiling  — " c  all  sweet  things.' 
No,  I  'm  not  unhappy,  except " 

She  broke  off  abruptly.  Rose  did  not 
speak,  but  she  looked  an  interrogation. 

"  Dick  is  coming  this  afternoon  —  to  say 
good-bye.  He  's  going  away." 

Mrs.  Summers  raised  her  head. 

"  Really  away  ?  " 

"To  Central  Africa  —  if  that's  far  enough," 
returned  her  friend,  with  a  curious  inflection 
in  her  voice.  She  got  up,  and  replaced  some 
Roman  hyacinths  which  had  fallen  from  a 
glass  on  a  table  near  the  window.  "  I  'm  — 


The  Day's  Journey          275 

I'm  sorry  he's  coming,"  she  added,  speaking 
with  her  back  to  Rose. 

"Why?     You  think ?" 

"  We  've  said  good-bye.  I  met  him  in 
Rome." 

She  felt  rather  than  saw  Rose's  start  of 
reproachful  amazement. 

"  Don't  say  anything.  Don't  ask,"  she 
exclaimed,  hurriedly.  "  It  was  by  accident." 
She  put  back  the  last  flower,  and  returned  to 
the  sofa,  where  her  friend  was  sitting.  Rose 
saw  that  her  hands  were  trembling. 

"  If  I  might  have  one  prayer  granted  now," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  would  be  that  he 
might  forget  me  utterly.  Forget  he'd  ever 
seen  me.  I've  got  to  get  through  life  with- 
out him,  but  that 's  nothing  compared  to  what 
he " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  Rose 
understood. 


CHAPTER     XXIV 

and  take  off  your  things,"  sug- 
gested  Cecily.  Her  tone  indicated  that 
conversation  henceforward  was  to  be  of  a  surface 
nature,  and  again  Rose  understood. 

While  she  took  toilet  things  from  her 
travelling-bag,  and  straightened  her  hair,  they 
talked  of  Cecily's  journeyings,  of  travelling 
adventures,  of  the  places  she  had  visited  — 
and  later  of  Diana  and  her  love  affairs. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,  I  think,"  Cecily  said, 
laughing  a  little.  "  Is  n't  she  quaint  about  it, 
though  ?  But  he  's  a  nice  boy." 

When  they  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  Cecily  had  settled  herself  into  her  favor- 
ite chair,  she  said,  comfortably  : 

"  There 's  one  good  thing,  we  sha'n't  be 
disturbed  this  afternoon.  No  one  knows  I  'm 
home  yet." 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  have  to  break  it  to  you,  but 
every  one  knows  !  "  exclaimed  Rose,  laughing. 
"The  day  I  had  your  telegram  I  happened 


The  Day's  Journey  277 

to  be  in  town  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  met  Lady 
Wilmot."  She  paused  dramatically. 

Cecily  groaned.    "  You  told  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  came  sailing  across  the  road, 
panting  for  gossip,  and  immediately  asked  after 
you,  hoping  for  the  worst  in  every  feature. 
I  couldn't  resist  disappointing  her.  Then 
she  put  on  her  face  of  mystery  —  you  know 
it,  and  began,  {  My  dear,  we  must  have  a 

talk '  Of  course  I  found  I  had  to  catch  a 

train,  and  rushed  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence, 
leaving  her  palpitating  like  her  own  motor-car. 
She  does  n't  know  the  exact  moment  of  your 
arrival,  but  you  may  be  very  sure  she  '11  be 
round  before  long." 

"  To  see  whether  the  situation  lends  itself  to 
elaborate  or  simple  embroidery  ?  She  's  a  real 
artist.  Have  people  been  talking  much  ?  "  she 
added,  after  a  moment.  "  But  of  course  they 
have." 

"  Privately,  no  doubt.  That  does  n't  mat- 
ter. But,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  there 's  been 
quite  a  successful  conspiracy  of  mutual  accep- 
tance of  Diana's  illness.  The  paragraphs  about 
Dick  have  been  useful,  too." 

"  What  sort  of  paragraphs  ?  "  asked  Cecily, 
slowly. 

"  Oh,    things    like,    '  We   learn    that    Mr. 


278  The  Day's  Journey 

Richard  Mayne,  the  distinguished  traveller  and 
explorer,  is  engaged  in  active  preparations  for 
another  expedition  into  the  interior  of  Central 
Africa,'  and  so  on." 

"  Is  Philippa  married  ? "  asked  Cecily, 
suddenly. 

"  No  —  apparently  not,  though  why  she 
should  hesitate  to  make  a  good  fellow  unhappy, 
I  don't " 

Her  words  were  cut  short  by  the  maid's  an- 
nouncement of  Lady  Wilmot.  Rose  and 
Cecily  had  barely  time  to  exchange  glances 
before  she  was  upon  them,  in  emerald  green 
brocade  and  feather  trimming. 

Like  a  Meredithian  heroine  she  "  swam " 
towards  Cecily,  whom  she  voluminously 
embraced. 

"Welcome  home,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  and 
added  in  a  gloomy  whisper,  "  but  why  did  n't 
you  come  before  ?  And  where  is  Diana  ? 
And  how,  I  should  ask,  is  Diana  ? " 

This,  while  she  shook  hands  with  Rose,  was 
delivered  with  the  air  of  one  who,  while  allow- 
ing herself  for  philanthropic  purposes  to  have 
the  appearance  of  being  deceived,  wishes  to  re- 
mind the  deceiver  that  she  possesses  intelligence. 

"  Diana  has  just  gone  out.  She  is  splen- 
didly well  now,  I  'm  thankful  to  say,"  answered 


The  Day's  Journey          279 

Cecily,  smiling.  "That's  why  I  was  able  to 
come  home.  And  I  was  so  glad  it  was  possible, 
when  I  heard  from  Rose  last  week  that  it  was 
poor  Robert's  turn  to  look  ill." 

Lady  Wilmot  looked  at  her  fixedly  before 
she  dropped,  with  an  undeniable  thud,  into  a 
neighboring  chair. 

Her  expression  demanded  imperatively 
whether  ignorance  or  duplicity  accounted  for 
the  remarks  of  her  hostess. 

Cecily  was  faintly  amused.  She  found  her- 
self a  little  curious  as  to  the  meaning  of  her 
guest's  portentous  behavior,  though  her  won- 
der was  only  slightly  stirred,  after  all.  Her 
mind  was  full  of  other  matters. 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  bell. 

"  We  '11  have  tea  at  once,"  she  said. 

Lady  Wilmot  stopped  her  with  a  command- 
ing gesture. 

"  Where  is  Robert  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"At  Aldeburgh,"  returned  Cecily.  "He 
may  be  back  to-day,  though.  He  does  n't  ex- 
pect me  quite  so  soon.  I  'm  to  be  a  surprise 
for  him."  Her  smile  this  time  was  tinged  with 
impatience.  Lady  Wilmot's  stare  annoyed 
her. 

"  Are  you  sure  he 's  at  Aldeburgh  ? "  she 
now  inquired  in  a  deep  voice. 


280         The  Day's  Journey 

"  Certainly,"  said  Cecily,  rather  stiffly. 

Lady  Wilmot  settled  her  back  more  com- 
fortably into  the  sofa  cushions,  and  metaphori- 
cally untied  her  bonnet-strings. 

"  My  dear  Cecily,"  she  began,  "  I  know  I 
may  speak  before  Rose,  and  you  must  n't  be 
upset  by  anything  I  am  going  to  say.  Now 
Robert  has  been  in  town  lately,  I  hear." 

Cecily  had  risen,  and  was  standing  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece,  looking  down  at  her 
guest  with  a  grave  face,  touched  with  involun- 
tary displeasure. 

"  Robert  was  here  a  week  ago,  I  believe," 
she  said,  coldly.  "  He  came  to  see  to  the 
opening  of  the  flat,  when  the  servants  came 
back." 

"  Precisely,"  nodded  Lady  Wilmot.  "  Now, 
my  dear  Cecily,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so, 
you  have  made  several  grave  mistakes  in  your 
dealings  with  Robert.  Oh,  yes  !  I  was  pre- 
pared for  a  dignified  expression,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  It's  just  what  a  woman  honestly  en- 
deavoring to  do  her  duty  must  of  necessity 
expect."  At  this  point  in  the  monologue  Rose 
somewhat  hurriedly  changed  her  seat  to  a  posi- 
tion from  which  her  face  was  not  visible  to 
Lady  Wilmot.  "  In  the  first  place,"  pursued 
that  lady,  "  what,  in  the  name  of  foolishness, 


The  Day's  Journey          281 

induced  you,  as  a  married  woman  of  some 
years'  standing,  to  allow  Philippa  Burton  to 
act  as  your  husband's  secretary  ?  In  the  second, 
how  could  you  have  the  stupidity  to  leave  a  man 
like  Robert  —  or  for  that  matter,  any  man  — 
for  three  months  ?  Men  will  be  men,  and  we 
can't  stop  them.  We  can  only  be  drags  on  the 
wheel.  You  should  have  stopped  at  home,  my 
dear,  and  been  a  drag.  In  the  third " 

Cecily  made  an  impatient  movement.  "  I 
shall  feel  much  obliged,  Lady  Wilmot,  if  you 
will  at  once  tell  me  why  you  have  called  this 
afternoon,"  she  said,  very  coldly. 

Lady  Wilmot  bridled. 

"  With  pleasure,"  she  returned,  quite  truth- 
fully. "  This  day  week  I  was  driving  past 
these  flats  on  my  way  home  from  a  bridge 
party.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  at  night. 

Twelve  o'clock,  I  know,  because "  For 

a  moment  or  two  Cecily  lost  the  thread  of  Lady 
Wilmot's  recital.  Her  attention  was  fixed  upon 
something  else.  From  her  position  by  the 
fireplace  she  commanded  the  room.  Both  the 
other  women  had  their  backs  turned  towards 
the  door;  it  was,  therefore,  only  she  who  saw 
it  quietly  open,  and  Philippa  Burton  appear 
on  the  threshold.  As  she  entered,  Lady  Wil- 
mot was  speaking  her  name.  .  .  . 


282          The  Day's  Journey 

"  Twelve  o'clock,  when  the  hall  door 
opened  and  Philippa  Burton  came  out.  I 
watched  her  down  the  road  from  my  carriage 
window.  And  now,"  she  continued,  half 
rising,  "  having  done  my  duty  by  you,  for 
which  I  shall  get,  as  I  expected,  little  thanks, 
I  shall  go  straight  to  the  Neverns.  Gaby 
and  fool  as  God  knows  Sammy  Nevern  to 
be,  I  have  a  respect  for  his  parents,  and 
therefore " 

Again  Cecily  lost  the  thread  of  Lady  Wil- 
mot's  remarks,  continued  during  the  occupa- 
tion of  hunting  for  a  feather  boa.  Above  the 
heads  of  the  two  unconscious  women  in  the 
room,  the  eyes  of  the  other  two  met.  In 
Philippa's  there  was  agonized  supplication. 

Cecily  never  knew  what  prompted  her  next 
words.  They  rose  to  her  lips  fluently,  and  ap- 
parently without  volition.  She  was  even  star- 
tled as  she  heard  herself  give  them  utterance. 

"  I  have  let  you  go  on,  Lady  Wilmot," 
she  said  in  a  voice  drained  of  all  expression, 
"  though  you  did  not  see  that  Miss  Burton 
was  in  the  room." 

Lady  Wilmot  turned  as  though  a  fog- 
signal  had  gone  off  under  her  chair.  Rose 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and  moved  nearer  to 
Cecily. 


The  Day's  Journey          283 

"  When  I  tell  you  that  Miss  Burton  was 
here  the  other  night  at  my  request,"  Cecily 
went  on  in  the  same  tone,  "  you  will  under- 
stand that  you  have  made  a  grave  mistake." 

The  faintest  flicker  of  eyelashes  was  the 
only  sign  of  surprise  which  Rose  allowed  her- 
self. She  stood  and  waited,  with  an  impas- 
sive countenance,  while  Lady  Wilmot  gasped. 

"  At  your  request  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"Yes.  Why  not?"  returned  Cecily,  her 
mind  still  working,  as  it  seemed,  independ- 
ently of  her.  "  Miss  Burton,  as  you  know, 
was  my  husband's  secretary  up  to  the  time 
we  closed  the  flat.  A  few  days  ago  he  wrote 
to  me  from  Aldeburgh  about  a  manuscript 
which  he  thought  I  had  taken  abroad  with 
me.  I  happened  to  know  it  was  here. 
Naturally,  as  Miss  Burton  knew  all  about 
his  papers,  I  wrote  to  her  to  come  and  find 
it.  I  don't  know  why  she  should  have  chosen 
the  late  hour  you  mention,  certainly.  That 
is  her  own  affair.  Probably  she  was  busy 
earlier.  In  any  case,  my  husband  was  not 
in  the  flat  at  the  time.  As  I  tell  you,  he 
wrote  to  me  from  Aldeburgh." 

Lady  Wilmot  finished  patting  her  boa,  and 
readjusted  her  veil,  with  an  assumption  of 
calmness  which  Rose  secretly  admired. 


284  The  Day's  Journey 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very  sorry.  Philippa,  my 
dear,  I  must  apologize."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  Cecily.  "  And  I  'm  quite  sure  neither 
of  you  young  people  will  bear  me  any  malice," 
she  added,  looking  from  one  to  another. 
"  You,  my  dear  Cecily,  will  certainly  ap- 
preciate the  motive." 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Cecily,  gravely.  "  Rose, 
do  you  mind  going  to  the  door  with  Lady 
Wiimot?" 


CHAPTER   XXV 

WHEN  the  door  closed,  Cecily,  without  a 
glance  at  Philippa,  who  stood  motionless 
just  within  the  room,  crossed  blindly  to  the 
window,  and  stood  looking  out.  Half  con- 
sciously she  noticed  the  cathedral  tower  against 
the  sky.  The  sight  of  it  reminded  her  of  her 
struggles  for  peace  and  freedom,  their  slow 
attainment,  her  hardly  won  serenity.  Dis- 
gust filled  her  mind.  It  was  for  this,  then, 
that  she  had  abandoned  Dick,  and  hurried 
back  hundreds  of  miles  to  a  man  who  was 
ready  to  subject  her  once  more  to  insult.  She 
smiled  to  herself  disdainfully  at  the  thought 
of  Rose's  credulity,  of  her  own  emotional  ten- 
derness. The  door  bell  rang  suddenly.  A 
moment,  and  she  heard  a  man's  footstep, 
and  a  man's  voice.  It  was  Dick !  Rose  was 
asking  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  she 
herself  was  sitting. 

Involuntarily  Cecily  turned — her  one  instinct 
to  go  to  him.  Through  her  mind  darted 
possibilities.  She  had  taken  no  irrevocable 


286          The  Day's  Journey 

step  —  nothing  was  yet  too  late.  As  she 
turned,  her  eyes  fell  upon  Philippa,  whose 
presence  she  had  forgotten.  She  was  still 
standing,  waiting  till  Cecily  should  move,  and, 
as  for  the  second  time  her  eyes  met  Cecily's, 
she  was  struck  afresh  by  their  desperate  ap- 
peal. Well  as  she  knew,  and  contemptuous 
as  she  was,  of  all  Philippa's  posing,  this  new 
look  of  hers  was  genuine.  It  served  to  stay 
her  steps. 

Philippa  made  a  hesitating  movement 
towards  her. 

"  Oh,  it  was  noble  of  you,"  she  whispered. 

The  familiar  word  jarred  upon  Cecily.  She 
frowned  impatiently. 

"  Shall  we  leave  nobility  out  of  our  con- 
versation ?"'  she  asked.  "  I  'm  rather  tired 
of  it.  Will  you  sit  down  ?  " 

Philippa  complied,  and  after  a  moment 
Cecily  too  sat  down  at  some  little  distance. 
For  an  interval  there  was  silence. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  admit  that  I  managed 
to  save  you  just  now  from  a  scandal,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  murmured  the  other  woman. 

"  Then  will  you  look  upon  this  as  a  busi- 
ness transaction,  and  pay  me  by  speaking  the 
truth  ?  " 


The  Day's  Journey          287 

"Yes,"  said  Philippa  again,  her  mournful 
eyes  fixed  upon  Cecily's. 

"  Did  you  see  my  husband  the  other 
night  ?  " 

"  No  —  he  was  n't  here." 

"  But  you  came  to  see  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Cecily  drew  in  her  breath  a  little. 

"At  his  request,  of  course?"  she  asked 
lightly,  with  a  smile. 

"  No  —  he  did  n't  know  I  was  coming." 

Again  they  looked  at  one  another  in 
silence. 

"  Please  listen,"  said  Cecily  after  a  time, 
slowly.  "  Though  I  did  not  leave  my  husband 
on  your  account,  I  should  n't  have  returned 
to  his  house  if  I  had  known  that  his  —  his 
friendship  with  you  was  not  over." 

"It  w  over." 

"  Then  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  explain 
to  me  why  you  were  here  last  week  ? " 

Philippa's  eyes  wavered.  She  began  to  trace 
patterns  on  the  floor  with  her  foot. 

"I  —  I  came  to  borrow  money,"  she  answered 
under  her  breath. 

Cecily  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  With 
Philippa's  words  came  a  swift  realization  of 
the  sordidness  of  a  "  love  affair."  She  was 


288       .  The  Day's  Journey 

startled  a  moment  later  by  a  sudden  torrent  of 
words  from  the  woman  opposite  to  her. 

"  You  '11  have  to  know  all  about  it,  I  sup- 
pose !  "  she  broke  out  in  a  hoarse,  unnatural 
voice.  "I'm  desperate  —  hunted.  Do  you 
know  what  that  feels  like  ?  Of  course  you 
don't.  There's  a  man  who  threatens  —  oh, 
I  can't  tell  you  !  —  I  can't  tell  you  !  "  She 
broke  into  sudden  hysterical  crying. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Cecily,  more  gently.  "  Tell 
me.  You  must  tell  me  everything  now.  It 
is  only  fair  to  yourself,  and  to  me.  You 
wanted  money,  you  say  ?  But  why  did  n't 
you  write,  instead  of " 

"  I  did  write,"  she  explained,  between  her 
sobs,  "  ever  so  many  times.  He  always 
returned  my  letters  unopened.  He  —  he  had 
discovered  that  I  was  going  to  marry  Nigel. 
And  then  —  I  used  to  come  down  here  and 
wait  for  him  to  come  out.  But  I  never  saw 
him.  One  evening,  when  I  was  waiting,  I  saw 
both  the  servants  leave  the  flat,  and  I  thought 
he  would  be  alone.  I  did  n't  know  he  was  n't 
in  town.  I  had  the  latch-key.  He  gave  it  to 
me  once,  when  I  —  when  I  used  to  work  here. 
I  knew  he  wrote  late.  I  thought  if  I  could 

once  get  to  his  study  and  see  him,  I  might " 

She  paused.  Cecily  was  still  silent. 


The  Day's  Journey  289 

"  It  was  very  mad,"  she  went  on,  "  but  it 
seemed  an  opportunity.  The  hall  door  down- 
stairs was  open.  I  suppose  there  was  a  party 
going  on  in  one  of  the  flats,  and  I  trusted  to 
luck.  .  .  .  But  he  was  n't  here.  I  did  n't 
know  he  'd  gone  away.  .  .  ."  Again  her  voice 
failed. 

"  And  to-day  ?  "  asked  Cecily.  "  You  came 
back  to-day  to  see  him  ?  " 

"Yes.  Of  course  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
here.  ...  I  thought  I  might  —  he  might.  .  .  ." 
She  laid  the  latch-key  with  which  she  had 
entered  on  the  table  between  them. 

The  room  was  quite  still.  Cecily  scarcely 
knew  how  to  define  her  sensations,  but  relief 
was  one  of  them — the  greatest.  She  was 
glad,  inexpressibly  glad  to  find  her  new  suspi- 
cions of  Robert  groundless.  She  started  when 
Philippa  sprang  with  sudden  passion  to  her  feet. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "how  you  despise  me, 
don't  you  ?  But  if  you  'd  had  my  exist- 
ence    Do  you  know  what  life  means 

for  a  woman  who  has  no  money  ? "  she 
demanded,  fiercely.  "  Do  you  know  what  it 
means  to  be  turned  out  into  the  world  when 
your  parents  die,  without  influence,  without 
proper  training  for  any  work,  just  to  sink  or 
swim  as  you  can?  I  tell  you,  you  clutch  at 

19 


290          The  Day's  Journey 

anything,  at  anybody.  ...  I  shall  have  to  tell 
you.  ...  I  lived  with  a  woman  once  —  and 
there  was  some  money  —  I  "  —  she  moistened 
her  dry  lips  —  "  I  had  the  handling  of  her  — 
money,  and  I  —  I  meant  to  return  it,  of  course. 
But  she  found  out  before  I  had  time.  She 
was  hard  —  as  hard  as  nails.  She  gave  me  a 
certain  time  to  pay  it  back,  and  if  I  didn't  she 
threatened  to  make  it  public.  Well  —  I  bor- 
rowed it — I  had  to  —  from  a  man."  Again 
she  suddenly  lowered  her  eyes  —  and  Cecily 
understood.  "It's  he  who  threatens,"  she 
went  on  in  a  choking  voice.  "  It 's  not  paid 

back  yet — and  he's  poor Oh,  you've 

never  met  such  a  man  in  your  world,  of  course  ! 

You  don't  know  the  sort  of  man  who  would 

It's  the  money  he  wants.  And  I  can't  marry 
Nigel,  because  he  —  this  man  will  go  to  him, 
and " 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  and  hid  her 
face. 

Cecily  drew  nearer.  Human  misery  is  terri- 
ble to  witness.  She  was  moved  inexpressibly. 
Philippa's  affectations,  her  poses,  her  exasper- 
ating mannerisms,  had  dropped  from  her, 
leaving  her  just  a  naked,  shivering  human 
soul,  desperately  afraid. 

"  Philippa !  "  she  whispered,  bending  over 


The  Day's  Journey          291 

her,  "  if  only  you  had  ever,  even  once  before, 
been  sincere  with  me  ! "  She  spoke  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  pity,  and  Philippa  looked  up. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said.  "  Don't  be  afraid  to 
tell  me  everything." 

Philippa  raised  her  head,  pushing  her  hair 
away  from  her  haggard  eyes.  She  looked  old 
and  beaten  and  hunted  as  she  sat  there. 

"There's  nothing  much  to  tell,"  she  said, 
doggedly.  "  That 's  what  I  did  —  and  I  've 
paid  for  it.  It 's  awful  to  get  into  a  net.  I  saw 
your  husband  was  interested  in  me  —  at  the 
beginning,  I  mean.  I  could  n't  afford  to  let 
him  go." 

The  slow  color  rose  to  Cecily's  cheek. 
Chaotic  emotions  surged  within  her ;  among 
them  shame,  and  a  curious  despairing  pity  that 
after  all  her  husband  had  never  been  loved  — 
merely  tricked,  —  deceived.  "  Poor  Robin  !  " 
she  found  herself  repeating  silently,  with  a  sort 
of  passion  of  protection,  as  she  returned  in 
thought  to  the  "little"  name  of  their  happy 
days. 

Philippa  was  still  talking,  wildly,  incoher- 
ently, as  though  with  relief. 

"And  then  when  I  met  Nigel,  and  he 
wanted  to  marry  me,  I  was  thankful.  I  was  so 
tired  of  struggling  and  having  to  pretend.  I 


292         The  Day's  Journey 

wanted  to  feel  safe  and  —  and  sheltered.  I 
wanted  it  so  much.  And  now  I  shall  lose  him 
too.  And  it  will  all  begin  over  again  —  all 

over  again "  She  stopped,  drawing  a 

long,  exhausted  breath. 

Cecily  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  which 
she  threw  wider  open.  She  felt  that  she  wanted 
fresh  air.  Then  she  turned.  "  Listen  !  "  she 
said.  "  Don't  say  any  more.  Go  home  now, 
and  write  to  me.  Tell  me  just  what  you  want 
to  put  things  straight,  and  I  '11  manage  it 
somehow." 

For  a  minute  Philippa  sat  motionless,  staring, 
her  mouth  a  little  open,  her  untidy  hair  hang- 
ing round  her  face. 

"You  mean ? "  she  began. 

"  I  should  like  to  put  things  quite  straight 
for  you,"  Cecily  answered,  simply. 

Philippa  rose  rather  unsteadily  to  her  feet. 
She  began  to  realize  that  she  was  safe.  With 
the  knowledge,  her  old  self,  the  self  made  out 
of  incessant  posing,  constant  mental  attitudiniz- 
ing, began  to  gather  like  a  shell  over  the 
elemental  human  being  for  whom  Cecily  had 
been  experiencing  a  very  passion  of  pity. 

She  pushed  her  crushed  hat  at  the  right 
angle,  her  head  drooped  to  its  accustomed 
position,  a  little  on  one  side,  her  body  reassumed 


The  Day's  Journey          293 

its  yearning  lines.  She  held  out  both  hands  to 
Cecily. 

"  How  we  have  misjudged  each  other,  you 
and  I  ! "  she  exclaimed,  employing  the  deep 
tones  in  her  voice.  "  I  thought  you  unsympa- 
thetic, unimaginative.  And  you  no  doubt 

thought  me "  She  hesitated.  It  became 

difficult  with  Cecily's  eyes  upon  her  to  suggest 
the  possible  mental  attitude  she  might  formerly 
have  adopted  towards  her  husband's  secretary. 
"You  have  a  fine  nature,"  she  murmured. 
"You " 

Cecily  checked  her  sharply.  The  impulsive 
wave  of  pity  had  passed. 

"  Please  don't,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  I  'm  not 
noble,  nor  generous,  nor  a  fine  character,  nor 
any  of  the  things  you  are  fond  of  talking 
about."  Her  heart  began  to  beat  quickly. 
"  You  altered  the  world  for  me ! "  she  cried, 
with  a  sudden  passion  for  which  she  could  not 
account.  "Some  one  would  have  done  it  any- 
how, no  doubt;  I  have  realized  that.  But  it 
happened  to  be  you.  If  I  were  jealous  now,  I 
could  n't  lift  a  finger  to  help  you.  But  the 
worst  of  it  is,  I  'm  not  jealous  any  more,  and 
because  you  're  a  woman,  too,  —  and  that 
in  itself  is  hard  enough,  —  I  '11  help  you 
now.  You  have  taught  me  to  put  it  out  of  any 


294  The  Day's  Journey 

man's  power  to  hurt  me  much  again.  But 
listen  to  me  !  "  Her  voice  rang  imperatively. 
Philippa  raised  unwilling  eyes,  and  the  women 
looked  at  each  other.  "  For  what  I  've  had 
to  kill  to  make  it  possible  not  to  be  hurt,  I  will 
never  forgive  you  to  the  end  of  my  life."  The 
words  were  uttered  with  an  intense  deliberation. 
Philippa  paled,  and  turned  away  without  offer- 
ing her  hand. 

Before  she  reached  the  door,  she  heard 
Cecily's  voice  again.  This  time  it  was  quite 
under  control.  She  spoke  as  though  they  had 
been  conducting  an  ordinary  business  interview. 

"  Good-bye.  Please  tell  me  exactly  how 
matters  stand,  and  everything  shall  be 
arranged." 

Philippa  closed  the  door.  She  was  saved, 
but  it  had  been  at  a  price. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

IN  the  adjoining  room,  meantime,  Rose 
Summers  was  passing  through  her  mauvais 
quart  d'heure.  She  was  bewildered,  indignant, 
uncertain.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  situation 
appeared  to  have  changed  —  yet  dare  she  say 
anything  to  one  of  the  chief  actors  in  the 
drama  ?  —  an  actor  who  sat  opposite  to  her 
with  a  stolid  demeanor  and  tragic  eyes.  She 
decided  that  she  did  not  dare.  Cecily  was, 
therefore,  unavoidably  detained  for  a  few 
minutes,  but  would  not  be  long.  In  the 
meanwhile  Rose  looked  at  Mayne,  and  very 
ridiculously  wanted  to  cry. 

"  So  you  Ve  got  your  own  way,  as  usual," 
he  began,  quizzically,  after  a  few  perfunctory 
questions  from  Rose  about  his  forthcoming 
expedition. 

Rose  winced.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 
a  smile  can  hurt.  "  Was  n't  it  the  best  way  ? 
—  at  least  the  only  way  ? "  she  answered,  ap- 
pealingly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  So  he  does  n't 
know  she  's  here?  " 


296          The  Day's  Journey 

"  Does  n't  even  know  she 's  coming,"  Rose 
answered,  meekly. 

"  And  he  will  be  overwhelmed  with  joy  ? " 
Mayne  inquired,  with  another  smile,  difficult 
to  meet. 

Rose  decided  to  show  fight.  "  Yes,  I  think 
he  will,"  she  replied. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  he  looked  out  of 
the  window.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with  his 
back  to  her. 

"And  Cecily?  Does  she  want  this  —  this 
reconciliation  ? " 

Mrs.  Summers  smothered  the  thought  of 
the  possible  result  of  the  interview  in  progress. 

"Yes.  On  the  whole  —  yes.  She  was 
touched  at  what  I  wrote  of  his  looking  so 
ill." 

"  Was  n't  that  hitting  below  the  belt  ?  " 
Mayne  asked,  with  more  than  a  touch  of 
mockery.  "  And  he 's  still  away  ?  "  he  added, 
when  she  did  not  reply. 

"  Yes  —  but  he  may  be  home  any  day." 

"  So  you  did  n't  agree  with  the  step  Cecily 
took  ?  "  he  asked  presently,  continuing  his  mer- 
ciless questioning,  —  "leaving  him,  I  mean." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  quite  agreed.  But  one 
need  not  take  unnecessarily  long  steps." 

"  Merely  steps  of  the  conventional  length, 


The  Day's  Journey          297 

you  would  say  ?  Just  long  enough  to  keep  a 
woman  at  the  side  of  a  man  who  is  unworthy 
of  her." 

She  answered  his  bitterness  very  gently. 

"There's  so  much  more  in  it  than  that  — 
to  a  woman  like  Cecily.  She  has  loved  him 
—  and  now  he  needs  her.  I  understand  it." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Will  he  under- 
stand it  ?  I  picture  him  —  complacent." 

"No,  Dick,"  said  Rose,  gravely.  "He's 
been  too  far  into  the  depths.  If  he  had  n't,  I 
should  never  have  written  to  Cecily." 

She  hesitated,  glanced  at  him,  and  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  on. 

"  You  see,  Dick,  it  is  not  as  though  she 

had  ever "  She  paused.  She  could  not 

bear  to  look  at  him. 

"  Loved  me  ?  "  He  finished  the  sentence 
for  her  slowly,  all  his  affectation  of  hardness 
dropping  like  a  mask.  "  No,  you  are  right. 
That  always  settled  it.  I  know  I  'm  a  fool," 
he  went  on  in  a  perfectly  quiet  voice.  "  Don't 
think  I  don't  know  it.  I  'm  like  a  child  cry- 
ing because  a  star  never  came  down  from  the 
sky  to  —  to  be  treasured  by  him." 

Rose  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  the  room 
swimming  before  her  eyes. 

"  Dear  old  Dick  !  " 


298          The  Day's  Journey 

He  drew  himself  up. 

"  I  'm  off,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Summers."  He  took  both  her  hands 
in  one  of  his. 

"You  won't  stay  to  see "  began  Rose 

in  irresolute  consternation. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  firmly.  "  After  all, 
I  've  said  good-bye." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  did  not  argue. 

"  God  bless  you,  Dick,"  she  whispered. 

"  Give  my  love  to  Cecily,"  he  said,  turning 
at  the  door. 

That  was  all.  Rose  heard  his  footsteps 
down  the  hall  —  heard  the  hall  door  close. 
She  was  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  where  he  had  left  her;  she  did  not 
know  how  long  she  had  been  standing  there, 
when  Cecily  came  in. 

"  He  's  gone,"  cried  Rose.  "  He  would  n't 
stay.  Shall  I  call  him  back  ? "  she  asked, 
desperately.  "  He  told  me  you  had  said 
good-bye." 

Cecily  was  very  pale.  She  turned  a  little 
paler  before  she  spoke. 

"  No,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  He  is  right. 
Don't  call  him.  We  have  said  good-bye." 

"  Cis  ?  '  whispered  Rose.  "  Is  it  all 
right?" 


The  Day's  Journey          299 

"Oh,  yes!  I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  she 
answered  in  a  dazed  voice. 

Then  she  went  into  her  bedroom  and  shut 
the  door. 

Rose  did  not  follow  her. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

IT  was  after  dusk  the  following  evening  when 
Robert  drove  across  town  from  Liverpool 
Street. 

He  had  telegraphed  to  one  of  the  servants, 
who  had  lived  with  them  since  their  marriage, 
that  he  should  return  that  evening,  and  as 
he  neared  the  desolate  home  he  pictured,  he 
was  thinking  drearily  that  some  settlement 
of  the  situation  was  inevitable.  He  had  no 
hope  of  Cecily.  Rose  had  said  so  little  that 
he  had  returned  from  his  visit  to  her  more  de- 
spondent than  ever.  She  must  be  in  Cecily's 
confidence.  She  knew  Cecily's  attitude  —  and 
she  had  said  nothing ;  given  him  no  comfort. 
The  outlook  was  inexpressibly  dreary.  He 
longed  for  Cecily.  She  was  never  out  of 
his  thoughts.  She  haunted  his  dreams  —  his 
terrible,  mocking  dreams.  In  these  nightly 
visions,  he  saw  her  over  and  over  again ;  in 
the  garden  at  the  Priory,  walking  bareheaded 
under  the  trees,  smiling  as  she  ran  towards 
him.  Or  he  turned,  to  find  her  at  the  door, 
her  eyes  full  of  laughter,  her  arms  outstretched 


The  Day's  Journey          301 

to  him.  Always  the  radiant,  happy  Cecily  of 
their  early  married  life.  And  then  the  wak- 
ing —  the  heart-breaking  return  to  reality  ;  his 
shame,  his  bitter,  useless  self-reproach. 

Fool  —  fool  that  he  had  been  !  He  writhed 
to  recall  his  infatuation,  and  all  that  it  implied. 
He  thought  of  it  incessantly.  He  did  no 
work.  He  scarcely  slept.  He  suffered  as  a 
highly-strung  nature  always  suffers,  keenly, 
extravagantly  —  to  the  serious  danger  of  health 
and  sanity.  When  she  saw  him  at  her  country 
home,  Rose  had  felt  that  poetic  justice  was 
satisfied.  Robert,  in  her  opinion,  and  she  was 
no  lenient  judge,  had  borne  enough. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  flat  with  his 
latch-key,  and  Smithers,  the  parlor-maid,  came 
running  down  the  hall. 

There  was  suppressed  excitement  in  her 
demeanor,  but  he  scarcely  noticed  it,  as  he 
bade  her  good-evening,  and  put  his  wraps 
down  on  the  table.  There  were  flowers  in 
the  hall.  He  noticed  them,  and  thought  of 
Cecily.  She  always  suggested  flowers.  She 
had  a  way  of  filling  every  pot  and  pan  in  the 
house  with  them.  He  was  passing  the  door  of 
her  bedroom.  It  was  ajar,  and  there  was  a  light 
within  —  flickering  firelight.  He  wondered 
why  —  wondered  with  a  pang  at  his  heart. 


302  The  Day's  Journey 

It  was  cruel  to  light  a  fire  in  there,  it  made  it 
seem  so  much  as  though  Cecily 

"  Robin  !  " 

He  started  violently,  and  felt  the  color 
die  out  of  his  face.  His  name  was  repeated, 
the  "  little "  name  that  Cecily  had  not  used 
for  years.  He  pushed  open  the  door. 

His  wife  sat  by  the  fire,  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder.  She  was  in  a  tea-gown  of  soft 
silk,  which  fell  away  from  her  arms.  As  he 
stood  on  the  threshold,  she  rose,  smiling,  as 
he  had  often  dreamt  he  saw  her,  and  held 
her  hands  out  towards  him. 

Somehow  he  stumbled  to  her,  and  fell  on 
his  knees  at  her  feet. 

She  bent  down  to  him,  and  stroked  his  hair. 

"  Robin,  dear,"  she  said,  gently,  as  a  mother 
speaks  to  her  child.  "  Oh,  Robin,  what  a 
thin  little  boy!" 

He  began  to  sob  convulsively,  like  a  child, 
and  she  put  her  arms  round  him,  and  held 
him  —  in  silence.  .  .  . 

Presently  he  began  to  speak,  pouring  out 
his  love  and  longing  for  her  in  the  old  vol- 
uble, vehement  fashion,  accusing  himself — 
praying  for  forgiveness. 

She  sighed  a  little  as  she  soothed  him. 

"  But  it  is  all  right,  darling,  is  n't  it  ? "  he 


The  Day's  Journey          303 

said  anxiously  at  last.  "  Really  all  right,  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Robin,  we  're  going  to  understand 
each  other  in  future." 

"  And  you  do  forgive  me,  Cis  —  for  every- 
thing?" 

"  Yes,  dear  —  hush  !  Don't  let  us  talk 
about  it." 

"  And  you  love  me  ?  "  he  urged,  with  the 
persistence  of  a  child. 

She  hesitated,  almost  imperceptibly,  before 
she  assented. 

"  As  you  used  to  ? "  he  asked,  breathlessly. 
"In  the  old  way?  Just  the  same?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes. 
"  Robin,  shall  we  begin  by  not  asking  each 
other  too  many  questions  ?  " 

The  arms  he  had  clasped  round  her  dropped 
slowly.  "  Then  you  don't !  "  There  was 
inexpressible  disappointment  in  his  tone. 

"  We  can't  set  the  clock  back,"  said  Cecily,  at 
last,  slowly.  "  I  am  a  different  person  now." 

He  put  his  head  on  to  her  knee.  "  I  want 
the  old  Cecily  !  "  he  cried. 

Cecily's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  When  he 
raised  his  head  he  saw  them. 

"You  mean,  I  might  have  kept  her?  Do 
you  mean  that,  Cis  ?  " 


304          The  Day's  Journey 

She  made  a  movement  of  distress.  "  Oh, 
Robert,  don't.  Let  us  leave  it.  We  can't 
wake  the  past.  It  is  dead.  Let  us  think  of 
the  future." 

"But  it's  the  past  that  makes  the  future," 
said  Robert,  drearily. 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted  in  sad  agreement. 

There  was  a  silence.  Cecily  looked  at  the 
fire  with  eyes  that  he  watched  hungrily. 

"  Cis  !  "  he  implored,  presently,  "  say  what 
you  're  thinking  !  Don't  keep  me  outside 
your  thoughts.  Why  must  things  always  be 
different?" 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  "  Why  ?  " 
Was  it  impossible  for  him  to  realize  all  that 
the  years  had  done?  She  thought  of  the 
girl  who  had  married  him,  and  contrasted  her 
with  the  woman  who  sat  here  now,  by  the 
fire,  gently  stroking  the  head  against  her  knee. 
She  could  either  have  laughed  or  cried  aloud. 

"  Because  I  'm  different,"  was  all  she  said. 
"  I  've  learned  things,  and  one  can't  do  away 
with  knowledge." 

"  What  have  you  learned  ?  " 

"  For  one  thing,  what  most  men  mean  by 
love." 

"You  don't  doubt  that  I  love  you,  Cis!" 
he  begged,  despairingly. 


The  Day's  Journey         305 

She  hesitated.  "  It 's  so  difficult  to  say 
anything  that  won't  make  you  think  I  'm 
really  bitter  and  resentful  in  my  heart,"  she 
began.  "  And  you  see,  Robin,  I  'm  not.  If 
I  were,  you  would  have  a  better  chance  of — 
of  what  you  want  me  to  feel.  I  did  n't  want 
to  discuss  this,  but  you  make  me." 

"  It 's  better,"  he  returned,  in  a  dull  voice. 
"  I  would  rather.  Let  us  at  least  be  honest 
with  each  other." 

She  began  to  speak  after  a  moment,  hesi- 
tating a  little,  and  feeling  for  the  words. 

"You  see,  Robin,  when  I  was  lonely  and 
sad,  and  you  saw  me  every  day,  I  bored  you. 
For  nearly  two  years  now  you  have  seen 
very  little  of  me.  I  —  they  say  I  Ve  got 
pretty  again,  and  people  —  men  like  me,  and 
pay  me  attention,  and  all  that.  And  now  you 
are  c  in  love  '  with  me  again.  Oh,  yes,"  as  he 
made  a  hurt,  protesting  sound,  "  I  'm  very  will- 
ing to  believe  it 's  more  than  just  that.  But 
it's  difficult  to  forget  —  the  other,  isn't  it?  " 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  managed 
better,"  she  went  on,  musingly.  "  But  —  in 
the  old  days,  when  we  married,  I  never 
looked  upon  you  as  a  man  to  be  ( managed ' 

like  the  rest.     It  would  have  seemed  to  me 

20 


306         The  Day's  Journey 

like  insulting  you  —  an  insult  to  the  love  I 
thought  you  had  for  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert,  humbly,  "  I  know. 
I  've  laid  myself  open  to  that  reproach." 

She  patted  his  hand  softly. 

"  Marriage  is  a  very  difficult  game  to  play, 
is  n't  it  ?  "  she  went  on.  "  And  do  you  know, 
Robin,  I  Ve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  to 
play  it  successfully  the  woman  at  least  ought 
not  to  be  in  love.  Then  she  can  f  manage.' 
Then  she  can  play  skilfully,  and  find  her 
success  amusing.  But  suggest  her  methods 
to  a  girl  in  love,  and  she  thinks  them 
degrading."  She  smiled  sadly.  "  Love  is  a 
horrid  little  god  to  woman,  Robin.  He  first 
robs  her  of  her  best  weapon,  her  sense  of 
humor,  and  then,  as  the  only  method  of  re- 
storing it  to  her  —  flies  out  of  the  window." 

"  Oh,  Cis !  "  he  sighed,  "  I  've  given  you 
reason  enough.  But  —  I  don't  offer  it  as  an 
excuse,  but  do  you  know,  I  wonder,  how 
difficult  it  is  for  a  man " 

"  To  be  what  is  called  faithful  ?  "  she  asked. 
"Yes,  I  think  I  do.  And,  if  that  were  all, 

Robin It  isn't  that  exactly  which  shakes 

a  woman's  trust  to  the  depths,  and  changes 
the  world  for  her.  It's  what  goes  with 
it.  The  loss  of  all  the  other  things  at  the 


The  Day's  Journey          307 

same  time.  Her  husband's  consideration, 
his  tenderness,  his  friendship.  That  these 
should  go  too,  when  he 's  £  out  of  love,'  is 
what  most  women  find  so  hard  to  bear  —  so 
incomprehensible.  .  .  .  You  see,  since  I  've 
been  able  to  think  dispassionately,  I  've  tried 
to  make  it  my  case.  Men  say  '  women  are 
so  different.'  It's  a  convenient  phrase,  but 
it  is  n't  true.  You  'd  be  surprised  to  find  how 
many  women  are  remarkably  like  men  in 
every  way.  I  'm  one  of  them."  She  paused. 
All  at  once  she  lived  over  again  a  moment 
in  the  fierce  Roman  sunshine.  "  I  can  im- 
agine myself  tempted  as  you  were  tempted," 
she  added,  quietly. 

"  Tell  me  —  what  would  you  have  done  ? " 
asked  Robert,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  rather  huskily,  "  I 
should  have  remembered  the  great  love  we 
had  when  we  were  married  —  and  all  the  dear 
little  everyday  things  afterwards.  I  should 
have  remembered  that,  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  you  were  more  to  me,  just  because  of 
those  little  home  things,  than  any  other  human 
being.  I  should"  —  her  voice  sank  lower  — 
"  I  should  have  remembered  our  child.  Ah  !  " 
—  she  drew  in  her  breath  sharply  —  "  but 
that  's  different  for  me  —  I  was  her  mother  !  " 


308          The  Day's  Journey 

Robert  laid  his  cheek  against  her  hand. 
"  Anyhow,"  she  went  on  presently,  more 
calmly,  "  I  would  have  fought  with  myself. 
I  should  have  been  so  afraid  the  new  love 
would  pass,  and  that  then,  when  it  was  gone,  • 
I  might  find  I  'd  lost  my  first  real  treasure. 
But  men  never  seem  to  think  of  that.  Per- 
haps they  are  greater  gamblers  than  women. 
I  don't  know."  She  shook  her  head  quietly, 
her  eyes  looking  far  away. 

"  Cecily  !  "  he  implored.  "  Don't  say  I  Ve 
lost  it.  Oh,  Cecily,  love  me  again  !  " 

Her  eyes,  full  of  tears,  met  his.  "  You 
ask  for  something  that 's  gone,"  she  said,  mis- 
erably. "  Dead  roses  are  always  dead  roses. 
Not  all  our  tears  will  make  them  fresh  again." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Presently  he 
rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Why  did  you  come  back  ? "  he  asked  at 
last,  sharp  pain  in  his  voice. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  him. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  me." 

"  Not  if  you  no  longer  care."  His  lips 
trembled. 

She  put  both  hands  on  his  arm,  and  drew 
him  to  her. 

"  Robin,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  listen ! 
There  are  different  sorts  of  love.  It 's  true 


The  Day's  Journey         309 

—  I  can't  deny  it  —  that  I  don't  feel  in  the 
old  way,  —  in  the  way  I  did  when  —  when  we 
first  married.     But  all  the  same  you  are  more 
to    me  than   any  man   in    the   world.     Your 
troubles  are  my  troubles.     I  hate  you  to  be 
unhappy.     When  Rose  told  me  how  ill  you 
looked,  I  wanted  to  fly  all  the  way  home,  to 
look  after  you."     She  thought  suddenly  of  the 
letter  she  had  read  in  the  hotel  bedroom,  and 
was   thankful   to    feel  that  she  was   speaking 
truth.     "  All  that  part  of  my  love  has  never 
failed.     Do  you  know,  Robin,  when  one  has 
loved  very  much,  I  believe  one  spins  a  sort  of 
web,  made  up  of  a  thousand,  thousand  threads, 
binding  one  to  the  loved  person  ?     They  are 
very  slight,  but  very  strong.     We  can't  break 
them.     I  can't  break  the  threads  I  spun  round 
you.     I  have  tried,  but  I  can't.    Oh,  Robin, 
don't  say  I  ought  n't  to  have  come  back  !  " 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  breast  with  a 
touchingly  helpless  gesture. 

"  If  you  had  n't  come  back  I  should  have 
died,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  deserve  anything, 
Cecily.  But,  oh,  my  dear,  give  me  —  as  much 

—  as  you  can." 

THE    END 


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